


The Lamplight Letters

by northelypark



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Adventure, Chess, Family, Friendship, Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2018-12-04 14:56:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11557554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northelypark/pseuds/northelypark
Summary: Before the Mobile Fortress wreaked havoc upon London, before the Crown Petone set sail on its sole voyage, thirteen-year-old Amelia Ruth and fifteen-year-old Clive Dove were schoolmates at Dreycott School in London. Amelia's first term is only just underway when Clive enlists her help in uncovering a terrible secret lurking in Dreycott's shadows. But Clive has secrets of his own...





	1. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

     I was thirteen-years-old when I first met Clive. At the time, I was a small and bony sort of creature, built with sharp elbows, knobbly knees, and visible ribs that poked up from under my skin like bumps in a road. So skinny was I, in fact, that my new socks kept slipping down my legs and bunching around my ankles as I wandered the grounds of my equally new home: Dreycott School.

     It was quite intimidating to a young girl like myself, or anyone really, for that matter. The school looked more like a medieval fortress than any sort of place where children were welcome. A massive structure of gray stone topped with battlements and turrets, it reminded me of a bank of heavy-laden storm clouds that had managed to touch the earth. In many places thick shrouds of ivy had crept across the surface of the stones, so that the entire building was rather mottled.

     Although I was certainly no expert on the matter, I quickly realized the place must have been built in increments, perhaps the work of several successive mad architects, as it seemed to have no symmetry or balance or any sort of continuity whatsoever. It sprawled haphazardly this way and that, flinging sharp corners and sloping rooftops in all directions. Two enormous wings jutted from the building at odd angles like broken arms. Between them lay the lawn, locked in a crooked embrace. The lawn itself was overgrown with bushes and trees and cut in half by a crumbling gravel walk that meandered past benches and a fountain. Wrapped about the whole mess was a wrought iron fence, looking useless and far too delicate in comparison to the behemoth structure it contained.

     To tell the truth, there was a distinct air of abandonment about the place, as if I were alone among undiscovered ruins, a feeling which happened to suit me just fine. The day had been long and after the events of the evening had ended, I had fled to the lawn in need of solitude. Here I could think in peace about all that had happened that day and all that was to come.

     Could it really have been only that morning that I had said goodbye to my family? So much had happened since then that it felt like a month had passed.

     "It will be difficult at first, Amelia," My mother had told me as she fixed the collar of my jacket, the sound of the train's engine rumbling behind us. My mother was a small, tidy woman, her dark hair pinned up neatly beneath her hat. She glanced at my baggy socks, looking as if she wanted to adjust them as well, "It's difficult for everyone who leaves home, but it always gets better."

     "That's right," my father had piped up. In contrast to my mother, he wore wrinkled trousers and a watch that rattled on his thin wrist. His golden blond hair matched my own, except his was receding while mine hung in two thick plaits tied with navy blue ribbons. "Before you know it you'll be meeting interesting people and making friends, having all sorts of grand experiences you'd never find at home."

     "Grand experiences, yes," my granddad added, slowly raising his patchy eyebrows. He was similar in appearance to my father, but saggier, scruffier even. His eyes, though, were always keen as ice. "But I daresay you'll have a few miserable ones as well."

     "Dad!"

     My granddad stepped closer to me and placed a bony hand on my shoulder.

     "Now, I'm not trying to frighten you, Amelia. But you must know that out there on your own you'll run into all sorts of people. Every one like a piece on a chessboard, each with their own patterns, their own schemes, their own way of walking through the day. "

     My father rolled his eyes, but I could see a smile trying to break through on his lips.

     "Dad, not another chess analogy."

     I didn't bother hiding my smile.

     "Don't listen to him, grandad. _I_ like them."

     "Erm, yes, what was I saying again---Ah! Yes! Chessboard. People." My grandfather scratched his scrubby gray blond beard, "All different kinds. Each moving across the grand board of life in their own way, each with their own perspective. You will simply be acquainted with most, while with some you will inevitably clash. And then there will be those precious few who have your best interests at heart. Look for those who are sincere and thoughtful, who don't think they have all the answers, but have strong convictions nonetheless. Look for---"

     A train whistle blew and the guard issued a final call for passengers.

     "Oh, dear. I'm out of time. Anyway, take this," My grandfather pulled something from his jacket pocket and held it out to me. It was a piece from his favorite chess set, a king made of polished mahogany.

     "Take this and remember me and remember that people are pieces on a chessboard---well, no, they're _like_ pieces, no wait, what I meant is people are like a chessboard and, you see---"

     "Thank you, grandad," I reached out and hugged him about his middle, "I understand what you mean....I think." The goodbyes, I love yous, and promises to write often being said in short order, I placed the chess piece in my pocket, picked up my suitcase, and straightened my shoulders. As I headed to the train, I looked back just once, to wave and to capture a final snapshot of my family. My father smiling encouragingly. My mother returning my wave. And my grandfather slowly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose in his own funny manner of farewell. Then I was aboard a car and the door was shut behind me. On my way to London, to Dreycott---all on my own.

     The trickle of the fountain pulled me out of my memory. It was coming up upon my left. As I drew nearer to it, I slipped my grandfather's king out of my pocket and rubbed it between my fingers thoughtfully, feeling quite torn in two. As excited as I was to be at the school I had dreamed for years of attending, I also wanted desperately to be back home in the settled rhythm of my old habits, among the people I knew best. Today had been anything but settled. After I had finally arrived in London and taken a bus to the school, a flurried succession of activities had followed, each one beginning before the previous had scarcely been completed. The sound of the fountain faded as I let myself retrace the events of the afternoon, after I had finally arrived at Dreycott.

     Two older pupils, a boy and girl who looked to be twins and wore matching silver sashes, had been waiting in the foyer of the school to greet me and the other first-year pupils. They introduced themselves as Greta and Garret, the official Dreycott Welcoming Committee. Once all of the pupils had been accounted for, they divided us into two groups. Garret broke off with the boys, while Greta wasted no time ushering us girls in the opposite direction. She marched us through several long hallways, pointing at doorways left and right, and snapping out directions, instructions, and the odd historical fact about our new surroundings. Hurrying through such an enormous place left me so dizzy I didn't quite comprehend what was happening when Greta stopped at the start of yet another hallway and handed each girl a numbered key. Mine read "16" and I stood staring at it until Greta spoke up.

     "Start unpacking, ladies. Supper will be in half an hour."

     With that she was gone, leaving all of us to find our respective rooms. Beyond the door that matched my key, I found a small space crammed with a bed, a desk with a lamp, and a set of drawers. I set to work unpacking and had only just finished when a knock signaled it was time for dinner. This was a whirlwind of new faces, long tables, clattering forks, and food that tasted too unfamiliar to be of any comfort. I thought longingly of my bed throughout, but my hopes were dashed when we were all ordered to a welcoming assembly in the school's impressive lecture theatre. This assembly stood out the most in my mind. It had made me wonder if Dreycott was truly the place I wanted to be.

     When I had first walked through the doors and into the theatre, I had to stand for a moment and turn in a small, slow circle in order to take everything in. The hall was much like a traditional theatre, with a pitched floor and sloped seating arranged in a semicircle around a stage with a single microphone attached to a stand. Unlike a traditional theatre, however, the hall had windows which were narrow and so tall that they almost touched the vaulted ceiling.

     Outside the sunlight looked tarnished and nearly spent. I folded my arms tightly across my chest as I took a seat and waited for the assembly to begin, wishing my jacket was heavier. All around me pupils were sliding into seats, talking and fidgeting. A group of distinguished looking adults, teachers presumably, sat near the front of the hall close to the stage, as did a group of around twenty or so pupils who each wore a silver sash, just as Greta and Garret had.

     I was just wondering about these sashes when a hush fell across the hall and a thin, elegant woman strode towards the stage. It was hard to tell her age, especially from afar, but I could see that her hair was a silvery gray that fell nearly to her shoulders in a smooth sheet. She wore a fashionably tailored pinstripe suit that was several shades darker than her hair and heels that echoed grandly as she ascended the stage.

     The woman deattached the microphone from its stand and silently gazed out over the crowd. Finally, she spoke.

     "I want to welcome you all to Dreycott School. For all of those among you who are new to our school this year, I want to extend a special greeting. I am Professor Rosen, the headmistress here at Dreycott. For almost six hundred years our school has been providing pupils with the finest education London has to offer."

     There was a smattering of applause, most of it originating from the teachers and sash-wearing pupils. The professor continued.

     "Throughout the years our school has molded some of the most brilliant minds of today. Names such as Oswald Whistler and Bill Hawks come to mind."

      Oswald Whistler, that pianist with the wild hair, and Bill Hawks, a member of parliament or something. I wondered how many other famous faces had crossed Dreycott's threshold. It was somewhat thrilling to think my new school had once been the home of such talented individuals.

      "I want you all to know that this legacy will continue. I understand that some of you are still concerned by the accidents that occurred last term, but I want to assure you that I have taken every possible measure to ensure that such accidents will never happen again. These measures will involve some changes here at Dreycott, changes that will affect all of you in one way or another, but I assure you that they will be implemented first and foremost for your safety."

     I could hear muttered conversations rippling across the room, as pupils wondered aloud to their friends about the changes. I myself wondered what accidents Rosen was referring to. I felt an odd tingle in the pit of my stomach, but the headmistress was talking again and so I ignored it.

     "I hope that every one of you here today will strive to greet this new term with a fierce hunger for knowledge and a desire to achieve. When my grandfather, the late Headmaster Arthur Rosen, embarked upon the difficult journey of reopening this school, he had nothing more than the empty shell of a building to work with. Today that empty shell has become a hallowed institute of learning, a bastion of knowledge, a place where the wisdom of the past nourishes the men and women of the future."

     The audience broke into applause again and the headmistress bowed her head in acknowledgment. When the clapping died down she looked up and stood a little taller.

     "Before I dismiss this assembly, I would like to make a special announcement. Eric Hilberg, would you please stand and approach the stage?" Everyone in the room shifted their gaze to a confident looking young man with glasses striding towards the stage.

     Professor Rosen had, in the meantime, retrieved a length of silvery material. When Eric Hilberg stepped up onto the stage, Professor Rosen held up the material.

     "I hereby dub Eric Hilberg the newest member of the Dreycott Patrol."

     The crowd began to applaud again as the headmistress looped the material diagonally across Eric's chest and pinned it into placing, forming a sash.

     When she was finished, Professor Rosen turned back to the crowd.

     "The Dreycott Patrol is comprised of those pupils who have shown themselves to be especially honorable, diligent, and disciplined in all aspects of life here at Dreycott. They are an integral part of our school, helping to maintain order and provide guidance to all other pupils. May each and every one of you strive to reach their lofty ranks. Thank you all for your time. Good night and good luck to you all. _Praeteritum est, non tacet_."

     As the hall echoed with applause for a final time, the headmistress descended the stage and was lost in the crowd of teachers and patrollers who were surrounding Eric Hilberg, offering him congratulatory handshakes and shoulder pats. Everyone else began to trickle out of the hall, chatting and laughing, relieved that the assembly was over.

     The feeling inside me was growing stronger and, as I stood, I realized it was not so much a tingle as an ache. The professor's mention of accidents had unsettled me, but I wasn't sure this was the only reason for my weariness. As I passed a window on my way out of the hall, I saw the empty lawn and suddenly that was the only place I wanted to be.

      Now the light was very dim. With a sigh, I stopped to examine the fountain, which was like none other I had seen. It was certainly old. The stone was very worn and much of it had been claimed by pale green lichen. At its center was a statue of a young girl upon a pedestal, carved with exquisite detail. Her dress looked stiff and formal, but her long hair was loose, appearing to be tousled by the very breeze that stirred my own. She was holding a wide-mouth vase from which poured forth a steady trickle of water into a pool at her feet. The girl's eyes were downcast, looking empty and sad, as she stood performing her unceasing task. I looked up into those eyes and felt an odd sense of kinship.

     Exhausted, I sat down on the edge of the fountain and rolled my grandad's king between my fingers, trying not to think, not to let my fears overwhelm me, but to simply exist in the moment, to feel the breeze against my cheek, the gentle swaying of my braids. I closed my eyes, but only for a moment. They quickly snapped open again at the sound of a voice calling across the lawn.

      "See, I told you. Over there!"

     In the deepening twilight it was hard to make out anything other than three figures striding towards me, a short figure leading two taller ones. In a minute they were close enough that I could identify them as a girl and two boys, fellow pupils, who looked to be several years older than myself, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. The girl suddenly broke off from the group, her stride quickening.

     "You there," she said and stopped, standing right over me. She had a thick copper ponytail and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. Her arms were folded across her chest. The girl smiled, but it didn't look at all friendly. "You were right, Stewart." She said, turning to the shorter of the two boys as they joined her. The boy Stewart's face, long and bony with saucer eyes, lit up.

     "Of course I was right. I mean, I wouldn't drag you out here for nothing, would I? I mean, have I ever dragged you out here for---"

     "Shuttup, Stewie," The other boy muttered. He had broad, mountain-like shoulders and neatly parted brown hair. Perched upon his nose like a delicate insect were small wire-rimmed glasses. I couldn't help but think he looked a bit like a gorilla turned scholar. Both he and the girl were wearing silver sashes. Patrollers. The girl held out a hand.

     "I'm Vivian Chesterham."

     "Amelia," I said as we shook, "Amelia Ruth."

     Stewart moved forward as if to shake my hand as well, but Vivian firmly shoved him back.

     "It looks like you're one of the new arrivals. That must be why you're still out here."

     "What?"

     Vivian sighed. "Listen. We have rules here at Dreycott, Amelia. Rules that form the very backbone of our institution. But what happens when those rules are ignored...?"

     I could tell this was a speech she'd given before, one which she relished delivering.

     "Anarchy, right? I mean, that's what it's called right?" Stewart looked to his comrades for confirmation but Vivian only gave him a sharp look.

     "When the rules are ignored, our school ceases to function properly. Thus, someone has to enforce those rules. That's us. The Dreycott Patrol," Vivian indicated her silver sash, faintly glinting in the dying light. "You no doubt heard all about us at tonight's assembly. I'm head of the girls' House myself."

     "Oh, I see," I hesitated, "Did I... do something wrong?" Vivian sighed again and I could hear plainly her exasperation. "Must I make this so obvious? You are out past curfew, Ruth. Curfew is nine o'clock sharp. You should know this."

     "I'm sorry. I must have lost track of the time," I replied, my voice even softer than usual.

     Vivian appeared to take my words in a very wrong way. Her eyes narrowed, her brow lowered, and her lips pressed together, until her whole face was scrunched into an expression of utter disgust. "No excuses. Did you even read the school handbook?"

      "Yes." I tried to steady my voice, but my next words came out in a sudden spill of choppy fragments. "I did read it. But I wasn't paying attention. I didn't realize it was so late. I'm sorry. I'll go to bed now." I started to rise from the fountain's edge, but the larger boy held up a hand.

     "Not so fast," he said, "Because you broke the rule you have to pay a fine. Isn't that right, Vivian?"

     "That's right. The handbook says so in Chapter 8, section 19."

     "I believe it's section 18, but never mind that," The large boy adjusted his glasses with a beefy hand and raised an equally beefy eyebrow at me. I felt a horrible dread begin to uncoil inside of my stomach.

      "A fine? But I don't have any money with---" Vivian held up her own hand. Her eyes shifted focus towards my lap.

     "Never mind that. What's that you have there in your hand?"

     I blushed, not sure how to explain.

      "It's---it's from my grandfather. He loves chess and---"

     In one smooth movement, Vivian plucked the king from my hand and held it up to the fading light, squinting at it.

     "Hmm."

     She tossed it to the bigger boy, who seemed to be having trouble keeping his trousers up. Despite my unease, I felt a spurt of faint relief at not being the only one with a wardrobe malfunction. "What do you think, Trevor? Worth anything?"

     Trevor looked at the piece carefully.

     "It's a bishop, I think."

     "It's a king," I couldn't help saying.

     Trevor ignored me. He scratched the surface of the piece with his fingernail.

     "Looks to be made of wood."

     "Valuable wood?" Vivian demanded.

     "Can wood be valuable? I mean it can...right?" Stewart looked unsure.

     "Could I have it back now?" My voice was firm, even though it felt like little icy snakes were slithering inside of me.

     Vivian leaned in close and smiled again. I could smell a strong flowery perfume wafting off of her clothes. More suitable for a sentimental old grandmother, I thought, than a school girl.

     "Your little trinket will do nicely," she said, her voice sweeter than her perfume, "Now get to the dormitories, please. Chop chop."

     My mouth dropped open. I could think of a thousand things to say but not one came out. I opened and closed my mouth several times, trying to find a crumb of nerve.

     "Hey, look," Stewart said, grinning stupidly, "She looks like a fish, right? I mean she does, just look at her."

     Vivian straightened and snatched my king out of Trevor's hand.

     "Enough, Stewart. Let's go. I think I saw someone else over by that tree."

     Without another look, the three strode off. Soon their figures were almost lost in the gloom. The shivery snakes inside me were growing colder and it felt like they were devouring me from the inside out. I knew it was just a chess piece, but it was also a bit of home, a small comfort in an unfamiliar place. What would become of it? Tucked away in a drawer next to slingshots and confiscated love notes probably, in an office in some far-flung corner of the school. Who knew if I would ever see it again? I felt a terrible helplessness grip me, the kind you feel in a dream when everything is falling to pieces. I began shaking. They just couldn't take that from me. They just couldn't.

     It was then that my body finally unlocked itself from whatever trance it had been held under. I leapt up from the fountain and raced after the trio.

     "Wait!" Vivian ignored me, quickening her pace. I caught up to her, panting as I attempted to match her stride. "Give that back! Please! I'll go to bed straightaway. I promise. Just give it back."

     Vivian examined the piece once more and let out a small scoff.

     "What's so special about this? It's pretty worthless without the rest of the set."

     "I told you. My grandad gave it to me before I left for school."

     "Oh, your grandad?" Trevor smirked, "Must be quite the kook if he thinks some chintzy game token is a proper gift."

     Stewart started snickering and my eyes flashed hotly with tears. The iciness twisting inside me turned bright and livid as dragon's fire. Maybe if I hadn't been so exhausted, so frustrated by everything that had happened that day I wouldn't have done what I did next. I lunged sideways, towards the piece held in Vivian's hand. The girl quickly stepped out of my reach and I slammed into Trevor instead.

     "Hey, watch it!" In one swift move, he shoved me aside. I stumbled, tripped over what I think was Stewart's foot, then hit the ground, the air tearing itself from my body. My tears blurred my vision as I gasped for breath.

     "That was a warning, Ruth. Never interfere with the Dreycott Patrol. Now off to bed with you." Vivian brushed past me and continued across the grass, the boys close behind, smirking down at me. I wanted to chase after them, to rip their stupid little sashes off, to snatch my king back and fly off into the night, onto a rooftop where they could never reach me. But I could only lay in the cold grass, panting in competition with my racing heart.

     "Give it back, Vivian."

      The sound of dry grass rustling. Twisting my head to the side, I saw a pair of shoes materializing out of the gathering gloom. My eyes traveled up past a pair of trousers, a gray blazer, and into the defiant face of a boy with unruly hair. His left eye was open merely a slit, surrounded by a dark purple bruise.

     Vivian stopped again. She was really starting to look peeved.

     "Dove? Is that you? I am sorry, but if you have problem with us doing our jobs you're going to have to take it up with Professor Rosen," Vivian tauntingly waved the king in front of the boy, "Unless you want Trevor to do some more work on your face. It's not very symmetrical right now, you know. But he could fix that easily."

     Trevor took a step toward the boy. His pants sagged slightly, but he regained composure by hoisting them up in a menacing manner. The boy took his own step forward. For a tense moment, I thought a scuffle might break out, but then a sly smile crept onto the boy's face.

     "Oh, Vivian, I forgot to mention that Professor Xander has been looking for you. He's curious to know who was rifling through his desk earlier today. His _locked_ desk, I should add. You're part of the Patrol. You would surely have some idea who did it." Vivian's expression remained unchanged, but I could see her cheeks flush scarlet.

     "And what if someone were given permission to do that?" The boy shrugged his thin shoulders indifferently. "Either way, I'm sure he'd love to know who did it."

     Vivian threw the king onto the ground.

     "Fine, have it. But next time you get in my way, Dove, you'll have a matching set." Vivian grabbed her two friends by the backs of their collars and hauled them across the lawn.

     When they were well enough away, the boy scooped up the king and turned back to me. I quickly wiped the tears out of my eyes as he offered me a hand.

     "Are you alright?"

     "Yes. I'm fine, thanks," I managed as he pulled me up.

     I knew I was in pitiful shape right then, sniffing and shaking, dead leaves in my braids, my socks drooping at my ankles. My flicker of inner fire had utterly abandoned me, as had any sense of dignity. I had never felt so stupid before. My face began to burn with shame. _Leave, just go away_ , I thought, as I brushed myself off, not daring to look up at the boy. But he didn't leave. Instead, he placed the king in my palm.

     "Think nothing of it. My name is Clive. Clive Dove."

     I looked up.

     The boy's tawny bangs brushed just up against his bruised left eye. As I noticed this, he carelessly swept them to the side, but they immediately fell back into place.

     "Amelia Ruth."

     "It's nice to meet you, Amelia Ruth. Sorry you had to meet Vivian on your first day."

     "Professor Rosen, she---she made them out to be so wonderful." I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

     "That's Rosen for you. Runs this place like a battleship."

     "But your eye, that's awful! Does no one care?" Clive frowned.

     "Hardly," he muttered. He quickly glanced down at the king, "I take it you like chess?"

     "Yes, that's right. But not as much as my grandfather. He's the one who taught me, you see, and gave me this, for luck, I suppose."

     "You've already signed up for the chess club, I'm sure."

     I nodded.

     "We'll have to play a game together sometime. They keep a set in the library, you know."

     "Oh, yes, I'd like that," My eyes drifted down to my baggy socks. I felt shy all of the sudden, not at all an uncommon occurrence for me, but annoying just the same. I wanted to say something, anything really, but nothing would come out. Finally, Clive stifled a yawn as he looked about the darkening lawn,

     "I don't know about you, but I'm getting rather tired."

     "Yes... it's been a long day."

     "Come on, then, we can walk to the dormitories together."

     I followed Clive across the lawn, around the corner of the west wing, and through a neglected-looking side entrance into a dimly lit hallway. "Just go up those stairs to the left and you'll be at the girls' dormitory. The boys' is down this hall."

     "Alright then,"  I hesitated a moment, then held out my hand. "Er, thank you, again. For standing up to Vivian."

     Clive took my hand and shook it.

     "Of course. But remember, you owe me a game of chess."

     With a wave, he headed off down the hallway and was gone. I blinked, realizing I was all alone. Had he been a ghost, some sort of specter who appeared only at dusk? He had come and gone so quickly, it seemed a definite possibility. But no. I gripped my recovered king piece. I was only tired. Turning, I started up the stairs. I took each step slowly, not only so that they wouldn't creak, but also because I needed time to think.

     My grandfather had told me about three different kinds of people I'd meet.

_You will simply be acquainted with most._

     It was true, I had met more than my fair share of staff, teachers, and classmates that day; all blurring together into a sea of blue and silver uniforms.

_With some you will clash._

     Vivian's smirk, Trevor's beady eyes shining behind his glasses, Stewart's scraggly hair topping his long face, each passed through my mind in turn. I never would have imagined I would clash with the Patrol and on my very first day. Were they all going to be as bad as Vivian and Trevor?

_And then there will be those precious few who have your best interests at heart._

     Could Clive be of the third kind? If so, then I would have to return the favor. I didn't know how, but I would try and look out for him, as he had for me. His black eye was emblazoned in my mind; a darkened stamp that rekindled something within me that I was sure had gone out.

     Reaching my room, I kicked off my shoes and socks then slipped between the covers of my new bed, not even bothering with pajamas. So many loud thoughts were clamoring for my attention: the accidents Rosen spoke of, the Patrol, the food, my family. But beneath all of these thoughts was a different one that was growing quietly, but insistently. I just couldn't quite grasp it.

     Before long, my eyes grew heavy as marbles and their lids closed of their own accord. My heartbeat settled into a soft rhythm, my breath became slow and deep. Silence prevailed.

     It was then that the thought finally crept in, like a sprout imperceptibly pushing its head through the topsoil.

_I have a friend at Dreycott._

     And whether or not it was actually true, for the first time since I'd left the railway station, I let myself smile.


	2. Chapter Two

 

**Chapter Two**

     When my grandfather was a boy, very near the age that I was, he, too, attended Dreycott School. It was the most wonderful season of his life, he told me many years later. The stories from his time at the school were ones peppered with unusual, and often humorous, incidents. There was the story about the old teacher who collected masks from ancient cultures and hung them on every surface of his classroom so that his pupils were surrounded by the countenances of grotesque devils and feral animals with cold-blooded sneers.  And then there was the time he and his friends found a hidden passageway in one of the hallways, only to discover that it lead straight to the headmaster's study. My grandfather would always chuckle as he described to me the moment he emerged from the passageway, covered in dust and cobwebs, and witnessed the headmaster's completely terrified expression.

     Fed continually by these stories, I dreamt of Dreycott as a young girl. I wanted to walk down those same halls with my own band of friends, to sit chatting for hours with an interesting teacher over a chess set and a pot of earl grey, to settle in one of the library's famously plush armchairs with a good book, or watch rain drip from the eaves on cold autumn evenings. My grandfather knew all this. He spent many a long evening trying to convince my parents that I should go, at least for a year, and saved up every scrap of money he had to ensure they could afford the steep tuition. He schooled me himself for the entrance exam. He gave me every advantage he could offer. Now, here I was, finally at Dreycott School. But as I woke up that morning to the sound of a shrill cry, it was the very last place I wanted to be.

     As the sound faded, I remained in bed, motionless save for my fluttering eyelids, still sticky from sleep. A shaft of gray light pushing its way through my one small window allowed me to dimly distinguish the shapes of the room's sparse furniture, my desk, my dresser, and my empty suitcase huddled near the door. My eyes slowly closed again. I vaguely hoped that when they finally reopened I would be in my bedroom at home, instead of this cold, gloomy place haunted only by some ghastly shrieking ghost.   

_Shhhhhhrreeeeeeeee!_

     I sat up. The ghost was at it again, followed by knocking. It sounded faint at first, but drew closer and closer until it landed upon my door, a swift thump, thump, thump that finally cleared the last bit of mist from my head. I pushed myself out of bed, my toes curling in protest against the cold wood floor.  As the high-pitched shrieking began for the third time, I changed into some fresh clothes. A fourth shriek. Quickly, I brushed out my tangled hair with merciless strokes, redid my braids, grabbed my school bag, and exited the room.

     A large crowd of girls was gathered at the far end of the hall which opened into a spacious common room populated with several sofas, a low table, a bookcase and a fire place. The hearth was entertaining only a pile of ashes at the moment. In front of it stood three girls who, unsurprisingly, all wore sashes. Standing in the middle was Vivian, one hand on her hip, the other holding a silver whistle to her lips.  She looked ready to blow it again before she caught sight of me and a few other stragglers who had joined the back of the crowd. Vivian lowered the whistle with a sharp nod of approval.

     "Good. Looks like we're all here." Vivian folded her arms, her eyes roving sternly across the group, "I've introduced myself to some of you, but not all. I am Vivian Chesterham, member of the Patrol and deputy head girl. These are my assistants, Juliet and Ursula. We are responsible for the girls' dormitories and that includes all of you. We're here to make sure you're happy, comfortable, well-adjusted, and most importantly following the rules."

 _Here we go again_ , I thought. I couldn't be sure, but it seemed Vivian was glaring straight in my direction. She picked up a nearby book and held it up for all to see. It was fairly thick with a gray and blue cover, matching the uniform that each of us wore.  

     "Each of you was sent a handbook like this one before the term began. I trust you all brought it with you. Read it, front and back. Several times if you must. You should also know that several changes are being made this year." Ursula, or maybe Juliet, handed Vivian a sheet of paper, which she quickly scanned before looking back up at us.

     "Curfew is now eight o'clock for all pupils. Lights out by nine."

     There was considerable commotion among the group as girls shifted and muttered to one another.

     "Also know that the east wing of the school beyond the dining hall is currently out of bounds for all pupils, specifically the rotunda and the surrounding hallways. Any and all classes in that area have been moved elsewhere. Speak with one of us if you need help finding a class."

     I almost had to laugh. I couldn't imagine Vivian stooping to help someone locate a classroom.

     "If you read the handbook and follow the Patrol you'll have nothing to worry about. But for any of you who like dancing on the edge of the line." Vivian smacked the whistle into her left palm, "I'll have you know that the Patrol is vested with full authority to discipline and punish as they see fit. If you---"

     Vivian was interrupted by a long, low creak. Everyone turned to see a door slowly opening down the hallway. A girl peered out. She had a round face accompanied by equally round glasses, and dark hair so thick and long it nearly reached her waist.

     "Sorry," she said with a small wave, "Don't mind me." She hopped out of her room tugging up a sock with one hand, her other hand clutching her shoes to her chest.

     I heard several giggles and snickers scattered here and there. With a frown, Vivian pushed her way through the crowd, strode down the hallway, and latched onto the girl's arm just as she was bending over to slip on her shoes. The girl stumbled, then straightened, leaving her shoes behind as Vivian dragged her toward the common room.

     "Hey, wait!"

     Ignoring both the girl's protest and the increasing laughter, Vivian pulled the girl back through the crowd and to the front of the room.

     "Thank you, Gemma." she said, finally letting go of the girl's arm, "You've given me the perfect opportunity to demonstrate exactly what discipline looks like here at Dreycott."

     "Er, you're welcome." Gemma had just a hint of a smile dancing on her lips, "But can I retrieve my shoes first?"

     "No." Vivian tilted her head at Ursula, who dragged a wooden chair over. "Stand up here." Gemma complied. "Now, why don't you sing for us a few verses from Dreycott's official anthem to help us start our day? It is found on page four of the handbook. Loud and clear, now, so we all can hear."

     Gemma's ghost smile was gone. She shuffled her socked feet on the chair, her cheeks reddening.

     "The song...er...ah...hmm. Might I take a quick little peek? You know, in the handbook?" Gemma pinched her finger and thumb together to show how little a peek she meant to take.

     "You mean to tell me you don't know our song?" Vivian clicked her tongue.

     "Er, well, maybe not all of it." Gemma mumbled. She was glaring at her feet now.

     "What was that? Say it so everyone may hear, 'I, Gemma Mudget, do not know Dreycott's official anthem'. Watch your eye contact too."

     Gemma let out a long breath, then she looked back up at the crowd.

     "I---" she swallowed, "Gemma Mudget, do not know Dreycott's official anthem."

     "Really? You don't know it? Did everyone here that?" Vivian's voice dripped with mock surprise.

     There was silence in the common room. I wanted to step forward and say something, but my feet felt locked in place, my tongue a useless tangle in my mouth. Vivian seemed pleased by the silence. She looked back up at Gemma standing rigidly on the chair.

     "After lunch today, come find me in the library. You will write out the lyrics for the entire anthem twenty-five times, once for each minute you were late." Vivian turned to the rest of us, "Do you ladies think this is a fitting punishment for Miss Mudget?"

     There were a few quiet replies.

     "Well?"

     "Yes!" the cry rang out.

     Vivian waved dismissively at us.

"Excellent. Now, off to breakfast."

     The gathering of girls quickly dispersed down the hallway. I did likewise until I saw Vivian and her friends turn the corner. Once I was sure they were out of sight, I picked up Gemma's shoes off the floor and walked back towards the common room. She was alone now, sitting on the wooden chair, her head resting on her hands as she stared at the floor.

     "Here." I handed them to her. She looked up and gave me a small, gloomy smile. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but I had met so many pupils since arriving at Dreycott that their faces and names had started to jumble together.

     "Thanks." Gemma sighed as she slipped her shoes onto her feet, "I was a real idiot up there, wasn't I?"

     "No. It's Vivian. She could make anyone feel stupid." I let out my own sigh, "I should know."

     Gemma studied my face for a second.

     "You're new, right? I'm Gemma."

     "Amelia Ruth."

     "So, Amelia, you've already had a run in with Vivian, huh?"

     I nodded, somewhat embarrassed, and Gemma chuckled. We started out of the hallway together, trailing behind several other girls. "I didn't cross swords with Vivian until my second term. Spilt gravy all down the front of her uniform. Accident, of course." Gemma winked, "But to get on her bad side _your first week_? You must be quite the cheeky little troublemaker."

     "Troublemaker?" I smiled, "Hardly."

     "Why? What happened?"

     "I'd rather not talk about it."

     "C'mon, I won't judge. I've probably done ten million more stupid things than you have." Gemma clasped her hands together. "Please?"

     I shook my head.

     "There's really not much to tell. I was out on the lawn past curfew. That boy, Stewart, must have seen me or something. He told Vivian and Trevor and, well, they rather gave it to me."

     Gemma frowned.

 

     "Picking on a first-year before the term's even started. How low can you get? What did they do, hit you over the head with the handbook?"

     "They did try confiscating something from me." I blushed, "I... tried getting it back."

     I wasn't sure why I was telling Gemma all of this, but there was a certain relief in doing so.

     "Wow," Gemma looked impressed, "Were you successful?"

     "If you call getting shoved to the ground successful." I fiddled with my braid, "There was a boy who came out of nowhere. Clive Dove. He said something to Vivian that made her give it back."

     "Clive Dove, huh?" Gemma had one of her lenses gripped between two fingers. She trace the top edge over and over as she walked.

     "Yes, what do you know about him?"

     "Now _there's_ a cheeky little troublemaker for you. Always has the patrol breathing right down his skinny neck. But he's asking for it, he is. Sneaking around, screaming in his room in the middle of the night, getting into fights, picking locks, breaking windows, hexing people with his dark powers."

     I raised my eyebrows.

     "Or so I've heard." Gemma added quickly, "There's all sorts of rumors about him. Hard to know how much of it is true."

     " _Hexing_ people?"

     "Okay, maybe I made that one up, but you can never---what?"

     I had come to a stop in the middle of a hallway that looked totally unfamiliar. The girls we had been following had vanished.  "Gemma, erm, where exactly are we?"

     Gemma stopped and looked around in mild surprise.

     "You know I haven't the faintest clue." she grinned sheepishly, " By the end of my first year I'd thought I had everything memorized, then I came back and phew---" she snapped her fingers, "All gone."

     "Let's try going back the way we came."

     As we retraced our steps, I tried to remember the tour Greta had given me and the other first-years yesterday, but it was all a muddled blur.  Truthfully, I wasn't sure if I would ever be able to properly navigate the school. It seemed to be designed with the explicit purpose of bewildering its occupants. There was so many twists and turns, doors and hallways, long galleries and steep stairways, that one could explore for hours and always be treading upon new territory.   

     Each room and hall we passed through was full of curious details that made me want to linger and look on, as though I was in a museum, but with no glass cases or velvet ropes to restrict access. Stretched across one wall was a tapestry of a hunting party woven from the finest of threads. Up close I could see drops of blood flecking the flanks of the hounds and hoof prints stamped into the dark mud. In one alcove was a suit of armor with a red plume on the helmet and several noticeable dents, as if someone had only just been in a battle. An ornately handled sword hung by the suit's side. There were oriental carpets upon the floor, wood paneling twisting with grape vines and leaves, and statues of Grecian goddesses with cold marble expressions. The place was a hodge-podge of eras and styles blended into one confounding labyrinth. Silently watching over the maze were countless portraits of distinguished ladies and gentlemen, even a few children in stiff lace collars and old-fashioned breaches.

     Yet despite all of these treasures, I couldn't help but notice an air of neglect about the place. The floors, ceilings, and even some of the windows, were weathered and plagued by cracks. A layer of dust lay dormant upon much of the decor. The light furnishings appeared to be remnants of some long-ago renovation. It seemed unusual for a school as prestigious as Dreycott.

     I was thinking about all of this when Gemma and I turned another corner and passed under a wide arched doorway. The hum of countless conversations and the scent of warm bread instantly enveloped me. I blinked against the bright sunlight that spilled in through high windows, across long tables crowded with students and breakfast platters, and onto the floor like a river of gold. The dining hall looked positively cheerful bathed as it was in morning glow and my appetite triumphantly announced its return.

     "We did it!" Gemma said, "We conquered the maze and a feast is laid in our honor! Ha-ha HA!" She bounced back and forth on her feet, her arms crossed, performing an improvised victory jig as several pupils sitting nearby shot her baffled looks.  I started laughing, then caught sight of a patroller walking in our direction.

     "Er, Gemma..."

     Gemma grabbed my arm and pulled me into the breakfast line. The two of us snuck a look over at the patroller. He appeared oblivious as he walked past the line, scratching his large nose. We looked back at each other and giggled.

     The line steadily pushed forward until we reached a long counter behind which stood several cooks waiting to serve a number of scrumptious looking breakfast dishes.  We both decided on toast and steaming bowls of porridge before settling down in a quiet corner awash in sunlight.

     "So, what's your schedule look like?" Gemma asked me, as she crunched her toast.

     "Hmm." I swallowed, "I have history at nine, geography at ten, and maths at eleven."

     "I've got Latin." Gemma made a face, "Then chemistry. Then I have to go to the library." Her face scrunched up as she absently spread jam around her toast creating translucent raspberry swirls.

     I nibbled on the edge of my spoon, thinking

     "I could go with you if you wanted." I said, "We can meet back here for lunch and then go to the library together. I haven't gotten to see it yet." I paused, then added, "That is, if you wouldn't mind."

     The sour folds and furrows vanished from Gemma's face as her eyes widened.

     "Wouldn't mind? You'd really do that? I mean you don't have to. I'm sure you have better things to do then watch me write the school's anthem a thousand times over. I hope you never have to hear it sung. It sounds like a funeral dirge written by a monkey."

     "No, it's okay. Beside, no one should have to face Vivian alone."

     "Heh. Can't argue with you there."

     I couldn't help but wonder if Gemma was as lonely as I was. Did she have any other friends? I could see no reason why she wouldn't. But no one else had given her so much as a second glance when Vivian had dismissed us earlier. It seemed more than a little odd.

     Gemma and I finished our breakfasts then joined the steady stream of pupils heading to the second floor of the main building, where most of the classrooms were located.  I spent the rest of the morning getting settled in my various classes, meeting my new teachers and gaining an overview of what I would be learning throughout the rest of the term.

     The history teacher, Mrs. Sprink was a tiny older woman with a fiery penchant for military history. She promised that by the time she was through with us we would have a comprehensive knowledge of every major battle our country had ever fought, down to the details of the soldiers' uniforms.

     Geography was taught  by Mr. Carter, a large man with a larger voice and kind, sleepy eyes who like to wander off down rabbit trails, mainly involving the antics of his two granddaughters. Mr. Carter would inevitably realize how far from the lesson he had strayed and then try to connect his anecdote with whatever we were currently learning about. Unfortunately, it was a bit of a stretch to relate the story of his granddaughters looking for tadpoles in a stream with information regarding the seven longest rivers in the world.

     Finally, there was my maths teacher, Mr. Ebengrew. He was rather ordinary in every respect except for the fact that he kept a ruler with him at all times and would smack it quite loudly on his desk to emphasize certain points in his lectures. In his more passionate moments one could expect a smack every five seconds or so.

     After maths,  I returned to the dining hall. I located Gemma and we ate in the same spot as before. When we were finished, we gathered our things and headed in the direction of the library, Gemma in the lead.

     "So how do you like it at Dreycott?" I asked Gemma as we climbed a set of stairs. My relief over classes being done for the day and a delicious lunch had both made me feel cheerful and rather more talkative than usual.

     Gemma shrugged.

     "Well enough, I suppose. Not that I have much of choice one way or the other. My dad has a decent job at a bank here in London, see, but mum's kind of given up on him ever getting promoted. So she sent me here, hoping I'd hit it off with some aristocrat's son and marry up. Same with you?"

     "Er...well, no. No, actually. My granddad came here as a boy. He told me so many stories about the place, that it's been sort of my dream to attend Dreycott."

     "Glad you weren't forced like me. Well, I wasn't really forced. I would never have agreed to come to Dreycott if it wasn't for one thing."

     "What's that?"

     Gemma grinned widely, her eyes shining behind her glasses.

     "Acting, my dear! One day I plan to run away and join a traveling theatre troupe. Until then, Dreycott's got an amazing theatre department. The head teacher is Antony Xander!"

     "Antony Xander? I think I've heard of him somewhere." I thought back to last night. Clive had mentioned someone rifling through Professor Xander's desk. Gemma looked slightly indignant.

     "I should say so! He was only London's foremost  actor...several decades back." she coughed,  "The production he's putting on this year is going to be absolutely stunning. I'm going to try auditioning for the lead part. I got a pretty small role in last year's play, but I could tell Mr. Xander was impressed. He told me that---" Gemma stopped suddenly, her face crumpling in pain. She gripped her forehead, swaying slightly.

     "Gemma? Are you okay?"

     Gemma blinked and her roving eyes focused in on me.

     "Yes, sorry. I get nasty headaches sometimes." She frowned, "Now, which way was it...?"

     She turned back the way we had just come. "I think I'm a bit turned around again. It's this way."

     I silently followed after Gemma, baffled by her change of directions. I was also concerned about her pain, but she seemed alright now. She headed down the stairs we had only just climbed, turned several sharp corners, and then stopped at a door set into the side of a short windowless passage.

     "I think we can take a shortcut through here."

     Gemma opened the door and stepped through. I followed behind her, into a room unlike any I had yet seen at Dreycott. The room was only half the size of the dining hall, but was capped by  a lofty domed ceiling set with a small, round skylight that I had to crane my neck to fully view. This, combined with the lack of any furniture, made the place seem larger than it truly was. Portraits lined the walls at perfectly spaced intervals, broken only by the door we had entered through and another pair, wide and stately, made of  walnut and tightly shut.

     One portrait close to me caught my eye. It was an oil painting of a grim man with dark hair and a craggy countenance. The background was a deep black, but the light upon the man's face seemed unusually harsh as if the beam of a powerful torch had suddenly shone upon him, alighting starkly upon his pale cheek bones and scarlet necktie. The name on the gilt frame read "Sidney Dreycott" and so I assumed he was related to the school in some fashion.

     "Gemma, what---" I paused. Gemma was standing in the middle of the room, as if in some sort of daze. She was muttering something under her breath. I started towards her.

     "Gemma?"

     She looked up.

     "I don't think we're supposed to be here." she said in a low voice.

     "What?" I looked around the room again and back up at the dome, "Wait..." My eyes widened as a startling thought hit me,  "Is this the rotunda?"

     Before Gemma could reply, footsteps echoed from beyond the room, past the double doors opposite us.

     "We should go." Gemma said. We hurried over to the door we had just come through. However, right as Gemma grasped the handle, the footsteps stopped. We both turned to see one of the double doors sweep open, allowing  two patrollers to enter from another hallway beyond. I didn't recognize one, a tall girl, but the other was a familiar face: Trevor.

     "What are you two doing here?" Trevor asked immediately, his voice cracking slightly in suprise. He strode towards us, "Don't you know this area is out-of-bounds for pupils? Didn't you see the sign?"

     "We came through a different door," Gemma said quickly, "We didn't know."

     "We were just leaving," I added.

     "Enough. If I'm not mistaken, Mudget, you're supposed to be in the library. And _you_." Trevor turned to me, "You're that first-year who was giving Vivian trouble last night. Should've known you'd be a repeat offender. You two, follow me."

     Trevor and the other patroller turned and headed back for the hallway without a second glance.

     "Should we make a run for it?" Gemma whispered.

     "No, I think that'll just make things worse."

     Gemma sighed, but she trudged behind me as I followed after the two patrollers.

     Again we were thrown into the twisty maze of hallways and passages, although, fortunately, Trevor seemed to know exactly where he was headed.  We eventually stopped in front of a door with a nameplate that read: "Mary Goodson, Head of Girls' Boarding". I relaxed, the tension clenching my muscles easing up. I had met Mrs. Goodson on a previous occasion, when my grandfather and I had gone to visit Dreycott last fall before I applied. She had been a warm and pleasant woman who had greeted my grandad and I like old friends. I felt certain she would be able to sort this whole mess out.

     The door was slightly ajar and beyond it lay a small antechamber, what looked to be a waiting room of sorts, with two couches and a low table between stacked with magazines. Beyond the antechamber was another door, closed, which led to Mrs. Goodson's actual office.

     Trevor pushed the door open and ushered us inside.

     "Wait here." he said. He and the other patroller knocked on the door leading into the office and then, after a brief pause, went in.

     Gemma sat down immediately. She plucked a fashion magazine off the table and started flipping through it. She threw it down just as quickly.

     "I'm really, really sorry, Amelia. This is all my fault. I thought I knew where I was going, but the truth is half the time I'm completely lost in this place and my headaches don't help anything. I just get so turned around sometimes." Gemma rubbed her forehead, "I'm completely daft, I know."

     I sat down across from Gemma and tried giving her an encouraging look.

     "It's alright. I'm sure Mrs. Goodson will understand. And you're not daft."

     Gemma looked unconvinced. She was about to say something when the door opened and Trevor stepped out.

     "Alright, you two. In here."

     We walked past Trevor and into the office. It was small and cozily cluttered with floral print curtains hung over the windows and old, sagging armchairs facing a desk. Atop the desk were numerous paper stacks, some so lopsided they threatened to crash to the floor in a flurry of forms and files.  Sitting behind the stacks was Mrs. Goodson, who was speaking to the other patroller in a low voice. As we neared, she finished and the patroller sauntered past us, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. She and Trevor exited the office leaving us alone with the head of boarding. She was just as I remembered, a short pear-shaped woman in a pale blue suit, her blond hair tucked behind her ears.

     "Hello, girls. Have a seat."

     We sat down in the armchairs.

     "Gemma Mudget and....?" her voice trailed away as she turned to me.

      "Amelia Ruth, ma'am." I smiled up at Mrs. Goodson, but she didn't smile back.

      "Yes, that's right. Forgive me."

      Goodson sat up straighter in her chair and folded her chubby hands in front of her. Up close, I could see she had dark circles ringing her eyes. She was wearing a certain expression I couldn't place, one that looked neither warm nor pleasant.

     "Well, let's get straight to the point. Trevor and Lily told me you two were in a restricted area just now. The rotunda. And I believe Vivian told you that area was out of bounds only this morning." Mrs. Goodson's voice was crisp, cold even.

     "She did." I said, as evenly as I could, "Gemma and I were looking for the library and we got lost. We didn't mean to end up in the rotunda."

     "I see. However, Trevor also told me that you were involved in some sort of incident last night?"

     I felt heat prickle on my cheeks.

     "After the assembly, I went out to the lawn for some fresh air. I didn't realize how late it was getting."

     "Yes, well, according to Trevor you were out past curfew and you resisted the punishment they issued to you. I'm not sure you're aware of this, but the patrol are allowed to take disciplinary measures if the situation demands it." Mrs. Goodson closed her eyes for a second, as if she were trying to remember something, "This includes verbal reprimands and warnings, revocation of certain privileges, or an escort to detention."

     "I see, I'm sorry---"

     "But one of them shoved her!" Gemma burst out. I shot her a startled look.

     "One of them shoved you?"

     My face grew hotter. I wasn't sure whether to be grateful or annoyed at Gemma.

     "Yes. They took the present my grandad gave me, so I tried getting it back. I probably shouldn't have, but I was afraid I would never see it again. "  

     Mrs. Goodson's frown deepened, her brow creasing in concern. She opened her mouth to say something, then her eyes flicked toward the door, and her lips slowly pressed together.

     "I'm sure it was an accident." she said after a moment, "I know it can be hard for new students to understand the way our school is run. We are a unique institution. Pupils who show good discipline and academic integrity have a chance to join the Patrol and hold many important responsibilities. It is Professor Rosen's desire that the Patrol run much of the day to day activities here at Dreycott. They are more than just prefects, they are the heart of what this school stands for. You must respect them, even if it means giving some things up."

     It was a lifeless speech. Mrs. Goodson looked as if she had a bad taste her in mouth. She began to shuffle her paperwork, "Now, if that is all---"

     "Wait. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, Mrs. Goodson, but there's something else." Now it was Gemma's turn to look at me as if I'd gone mad, but I couldn't stop now. "Another pupil, a boy. A patroller gave him a black eye."  There was a hint of desperation in my voice. I couldn't believe  Mrs. Goodson was giving the Patrol the benefit of the doubt. She didn't look like she wanted to. Surely she had to have noticed what bullies they could be.

     "Who would this be?"

     "Clive Dove his is name, Mrs. Goodson."

     Mrs. Goodson's expression become even more troubled. Her face blanched and she tapped her index finger sporadically on top of a paper.

      "Clive Dove, you say?"

      "Yes." Now I wasn't sure what to think.

     "I'm afraid that's something you'd have to talk with the headmistress about. But since she's quite busy it would be best to drop the matter entirely." Mrs. Goodson leaned in closer, "Dove is somewhat of a trouble-maker. He picks fights whenever possible, obeys the rules only when it suits him, and generally causes disruption. I would keep your distance from him, Miss Ruth."

     "....Yes, Mrs. Goodson." What else could I say?

     "Now, you girls are free to go. I can see that you did not mean to cause any real trouble. Just remember to stay clear of the rotunda next time." Her face finally softened and she smiled, but the look in her eyes remained unchanged.

     Gemma had been staring at her feet the last few minutes. Now she looked up at Mrs. Goodson.

     "Pardon me, Mrs. Goodson, but exactly why is the area restricted? Vivian managed to leave out that little detail."

     I turned to Gemma, impressed again by her audacity. I was wondering the same thing, but had not possessed the nerve to ask the question aloud.

     "That area." Mrs. Goodson began, her eyes not meeting our own, "Has extensive floor damage. It is currently being renovated. Last year we had several pupils receive injuries because of said damage."

     Mrs. Goodson looked ready to return to her papers. Gemma and I stood.

     "Have a pleasant day, girls."

     "Thank you, Mrs. Goodson."

     We left the office and the antechamber. I remained silent, my mind burning.

     Clive a delinquent? And the way Mrs. Goodson had brushed aside the Patrol's actions. Defended them. It was all wrong. So wrong. And the rotunda...

     "It didn't look as if the rotunda was being renovated." I said as Gemma and I made our way back down the hallway.

     "It didn't look like there was any damage either. No more than any other part of the school." she replied, "And what were Trevor and Lily doing there anyway? It doesn't add up."

     I tried sorting through it all in my head, but none of it made sense. Not the rotunda. Not the patrol, the amount of power they were given, or the blind eye everyone turned to them. And that look in Mrs. Goodson's own eyes. I realized now it had been fear.

     I felt a sinking inside of me, as if all the stories my granddad had told me were dropping off into a deep pool. It appeared that the Dreycott my granddad knew was gone. True, there were still bits and pieces that remained bright. Gemma, my interesting classes, the peaceful lawn, the endless hallways ripe for exploring. But overshadowing all of this was the Patrol. Even Mrs. Goodson seemed afraid of them. I wanted answers. And I could think of only one person who might be able to give them to me: the ghost, the troublemaker, the boy with the black eye and sharp smile. I needed to find the one person I knew who had looked the Patrol in the eye and come out on his feet.  

     I did owe him a game of chess, after all.

  



	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

     Compared to my rather tumultuous first two days at Dreycott, the weeks that followed were uneventful. I was able to settle into a steady routine of attending class, studying, and familiarizing myself with my surroundings (a task that continued to prove challenging). These activities kept my mind engaged and, early in life, I had learned that as long as this was so I could be content. And so I was. Unfortunately, whenever I began to truly enjoy my time at the school, whenever I entertained the idea of favorably comparing Dreycott to home, the Patrol managed to step in and trample my hopes beneath their constant nit-picking and bullying.  It appeared there could be no true peace at Dreycott when the Patrol was afoot and they were always afoot. 

     Initially, I tried telling myself that perhaps Vivian, Trevor, and their close cohorts were the exceptions to the rule, that the majority of the Patrol was maybe somewhat decent. But the longer I was at Dreycott the more I realized that each and every one of them was just as infuriating and insufferable as the last. 

     In part, this was because the Patrol enjoyed status far above the other pupils. They were allowed to be out of bed long after the rest of us were shut away, they could be excused from any homework they pleased if they thought it might interfere with patrol duties, and  they would often retreat to their own private lounge which I was told was bigger than both the boys' and girls' common rooms combined. The Patrol would flout these privileges like a cat dumping fresh caught mice before the feet of its master.  To make matters worse, the teachers did little to exercise their own authority over the group. With few exceptions, they doted upon the Patrol, complimenting their work out loud and often, while readily complying with any and all of the group's demands. In many cases, it appeared they were only doing so to avoid being reported to Professor Rosen, a tender seedling of a threat that the Patrol enjoyed nurturing. 

     As for me, I wished to be able to simply ignore the Patrol and learn in peace, but the whole of the school seemed to be centered around the Patrol, of obeying the Patrol, of watching the Patrol as an example. Really, the whole business irritated and baffled me to the extreme. I wanted to speak up, to somehow show I stood against them, but my abhorrence of even touching a toe near the center of attention overpowered any effort I might have shown. So I obeyed the Patrol, but without comment, without a word. This was my sole rebellion. 

      I wrote to my family every week, but I never mentioned the problems I saw at the school. The last thing I wanted was to somehow disappoint my grandad. He had been so excited to finally see me off attending his alma mater.  How could I explain to him that the school was run by a matching set of snobs, that the teachers and staff were overly compliant,  or that the building and grounds were falling into disrepair? And then, beneath all of this, I had a vague apprehension, a fear that danced at the edges of my mind. I couldn't explain it, but I knew it had to do with the accidents and the rotunda. 

     I didn't know how to tell my grandad any of this. I didn't see what good it would do. I was here now and I wanted to finished up the year, at the very least. So instead, I chose to focus on the few happy aspects of Dreycott, the bright bits that diminished the shadow cast by the school and its silver-sashed wardens. 

     One of these was Gemma. After our trip to Mrs. Goodson's office, I made good on my promise and accompanied her to the library. Afterwards, we sat and conversed for a long time. True, Gemma mostly talked and I mostly listened, but this arrangement seemed to suit the both of us just fine.  Hearing all about Gemma's over-bearing mother and her acting debut at the age of five (she played a sheep) made me forget the troubled questions I was stewing over, if only briefly. When breakfast arrived the next day, Gemma found me and we picked up right where we left off. 

     When I wasn't with Gemma or in classes, I spent much of my time in the library, which became my sanctuary of sorts. Even though the Patrol's reach extended even here (several of them served as assistant librarians), not even they could transgress the sacred law of all libraries: silence. 

     Encompassing two floors, the library's spacious ceiling allowed the shelves to climb as high as trees. Like the rest of the school, the place was a maze, a forest, but one I didn't mind losing myself in. I would follow rows of worn leather spines until I found a gilt-lettered title that piqued my interest or sit and study at the chess set, tucked into a lonely corner and ill-used by other students. I would play a match whenever I found someone willing. 

     My secret hope was that Clive would show up for the game I owed him, but although my curiosity about him had only grown, I rarely ever saw him, only catching glimpses of him here or there, in a hallway or at a far table during lunch. I was beginning to think he had forgotten all about me until one dreary day in October, near the middle of term. 

     That afternoon I was in the library at the chess set, remembering the very last game I had played with my grandad before leaving for Dreycott. My grandfather was one of the few people back home whom I still could not best and this game had been no different. While at first it appeared I had the upper-hand, my granddad had shifted the game in his favor in a series of unexpected and brilliant moves. I was replaying this game on the board now, trying to puzzle out where I had gone wrong with the aid of a chess guide I'd received a few birthdays ago. My grandfather would explain his moves to me, but I liked to replay the scenarios on the board myself, moving the pieces about as if I was both players. I wanted to keep my skills sharp for when the winter break arrived and I would be going home. 

     The library quietly bustled around me as I slid pieces across the board, enveloped in the soft sounds of pupils shifting in their seats, flipping pages, and scribbling notes. The library's sudden popularity was likely on account of the weather, which had been gray and sour of late, accompanied by a perpetual smoggy drizzle that left the lawn looking like a soggy paper sack.  It was sprinkling now, outside the window next to me, but I was so focused on the game that the drops were only a smudge of fuzzy gray in the corner of my eye. I nudged a white bishop forward and something snagged at my eye's other corner, a flicker of movement accompanied by a familiar face. I turned just in time to see Clive disappear around the far corner of a nearby bookshelf. His shoes echoed across the tiled floor and then he was coming back around the other side, scanning the shelf up and down, running his hand along a row of spines. 

     Hidden in its corner, the table I was at hunched behind two heavy reading chairs that partially obscured my view of the bookshelf. I shifted in my seat and craned my neck a bit to the right, enabling me to observe Clive without being seen myself. 

     He was at the far end of the bookshelf again. Bending down, he slid a  volume out from one of the lower shelves, one with a dull red cover, and stood with it in his hands, staring at it.  As quietly as I could I turned around in my chair and leaned forward so that my knees were pressing against the slats, my hands bracing the top. Against my weight, the chair tipped slightly as I strained my neck, trying to make out the title. I shifted my knee and the chair creaked. Clive's shoulders stiffened, then he turned to look in my direction. I instinctively ducked down, losing my grip on the leaning chair. For just a second, I balanced on the chair and  the chair balanced on its wobbling back legs, then we both toppled forwards. Twisting, I grabbed at the table behind me, but instead snatched the edge of the chess board, yanking it and all its pieces down with me as I hit the floor in a tangle of bent arms, chair legs, and pawns. 

     I lay panting, my heart thumping fast and thick in my ears, staring in shock at the dust motes gathered on the tiles centimeters from my nose. 

     "Well, this looks rather familiar." The voice was friendly, with just a dash of mock smugness, "Are you alright?"

     Groaning, I lifted my head and grasped the hand being held out to me. As I was pulled me to my feet, Clive's amused expression slid into view.

     For the first time, up close and under good lighting, I noticed how unkempt he looked. His tie was wrinkled and crooked. His gray jacket was one size too large for him and his equally oversized pockets were bulging with rolled-up newspapers, pencils, a magnifying glass, and a small blue notebook with a battered cover. From the look of his hair you would think he had been recently strolling through a hurricane, such was its unruliness and opposition to gravity. At least his black eye had almost entirely faded, but I found that this made little difference. Just below his eyes were shadows that spoke of restless nights. He was such a weary, patchy looking boy that I couldn't believe he was the same one who had stood up so bravely to the Dreycott Patrol. 

     "Er," I couldn't seem to find my breath, "Thanks. I'm fine."

     I wished I could have snapped out a quick comeback to match Clive's own, but wittiness came as naturally to me as pole-vaulting. Instead, I rubbed my arms and legs, trying to ensure they weren't in any way damaged.

     "Game got a little too exciting for you?"

     I looked up again, my face flushing, feeling a pinch of irritation at the small smile Clive was trying to suppress. Where was Gemma and her cheek when I needed it? 

     "No." I glanced down. Clive was holding the red book at his side. The title read: _Classic Cryptology_. "I was just distracted. By some things."

     Before he could reply, I bent down, heat still prickling my cheeks, and began gathering the scattered chess pieces. Clive righted my chair and set the chess board on the table. I heaped the pieces on top, careful to ensure none rolled off. As I did so, I inwardly scrambled through my collection of small-talk bits and ice-breaker bobs, looking for something interesting to say. All I could think of was the weather. There is nothing so terribly stupid as mentioning the weather when you are close enough to a window that the state of the outdoors is clear for all to see, but that was what I was prepared to do. Thankfully, Clive saved me the trouble.

     "So, how have your classes been going?" he asked, as I began to line the pieces in proper formation.  

      "Oh! Er, very well, thank you." I dipped into a pause, then pushed myself to keep going, "I especially like geography. Which is funny. I've never had much of an interest before, but Mr. Carter is so...so..."

     "Long-winded?" Clive offered.

      "Yes! I mean no. Well, alright, he's a little, but in the best possible way. Yesterday he took up half of class telling us about his granddaughter's seventh birthday party. She had it at a farm because she loves ponies and in this one picture he showed us a pony was eating his toupee, if you can believe it. " 

     I stopped. Was I actually babbling? I never babbled. Certainly not about ponies. This was a surprising development, but not entirely useless. If I could get Clive talking, about anything really, maybe I could steer the conversation in the direction of answers. At any rate, my little tumble was on endless loop in my mind. Chattering seemed to help block it out. 

     "What about you? Any favorite teachers?"

_      "Shhh! Too much noise!" _

      A patroller had whipped her head around the corner of the bookshelf. She put a finger to lips that were curled in a murderous scowl. Clive nodded at the patroller with practiced politeness, then turned back to me, rolling his eyes. 

     "Any teacher who doesn't grovel before the patrol," he said in a low voice, "is fine by me."

     "That reminds me. There's something I've been meaning to ask you." The words slipped out before I could stop them. Clive's brow furrowed with a question, but he remained silent. "What I meant to say---" I hesitated, sifting through words. "I still owe you that chess game. And now I guess I doubly owe it to you. But if you're busy, studying, that is..."

     Clive rubbed his chin.

     "Actually," he began, "I could use a break." 

     Setting his book on the table top, Clive sat down in the chair opposite my own. He gave me that sharp smile. It was the same one he'd given Vivian my first night at Dreycott. Self-assured, but wary and wily as a hound-cornered fox. I didn't like having it directed at me. If my strategy was sound I would have the pleasure of watching it fade in defeat. But, no, I needed to focus on my bigger concern. 

     "Ready when you are."  

     "Right." 

     I took my seat, studying the board. I was white, meaning the first move was mine, but I wasn't thinking about that. This was my chance to ask Clive about the Patrol, about Dreycott, and the shadow, something I didn't even know how to describe, that was hanging over it. It was only a hunch, but I was sure he knew something, he was part of it all somehow. But how to ask? I wasn't even sure he would be willing to tell me anything. Why would he? Unless...unless... I focused on my pieces, casting their own pale finger-like shadows over the alternating squares. And then I knew. I looked up at Clive.

     "How about...how about we make the game a little more interesting?"

     Clive folded his arms.

     "How so?"

     I swallowed. 

     "For each piece you capture you can ask me any question you like. And for each piece I capture, I can ask you."

     "Any question? No holds barred?" 

     "No. And you have to answer honestly, of course."

     "Alright."

     I blinked. That had been easy enough. 

     "Alright." I repeated, "Here we go." I turned my attention back to the board and made the first move, sliding a pawn to e4, my usual starting point. This was an advantageous position for several reasons, not the least of which was I had a good chance of controlling the center.  Clive's turn. He mirrored my move, sliding his own pawn to e5. Our pieces stood directly opposite from each other. Now the game had truly begun.

     On my third move, I made the first capture, sacrificing my knight for a pawn. This was generally not a good trade, but, in this case, my move could lead to a chance to attack the enemy king. 

     "Let's see." I removed Clive's piece and rolled it between my fingers. Start small, I told myself, save the big questions for the end.

     "What do you do in your spare time, Clive?"

     My opponent smirked.

     "Sorry, can't answer that. I don't have any spare time."

     "Well, if you did."

     Clive tilted his head back, gazing at the high ceiling. Outside the drizzle slipped into a downpour, hurling drops against the glass. 

     "I think I'd write." he finally said.

     "About what?"

     "No, no. Sorry. One question at a time. And it's my turn, I believe."

     Clive captured my knight with a pawn and plucked it from the board. He studied it closely, than looked up. Studied me closely.

     "Do you like puzzles?"

     The question caught me off-guard. Puzzles? Like Classic Cryptology? Or did he mean mysteries of any kind? I wasn't sure, so I decided to be clever. Ish. 

     "Only if I can solve them." 

     Now I realized how stupid it sounded. Clive only nodded, as if I had confirmed a suspicion. 

     "Your move."

     I moved my queen out and the game had its first check. Clive responded by sliding his king a space forward. I captured another of his pawns with my queen. 

     "What do you like to write about?" I wasn't letting him off the hook with that one.

     "Interesting things I see. Questions I have. Ideas." he shrugged, "It's something everyone should do."

     Clive had only one move available to him. He nudged his king a space to the right. I moved out a bishop. Clive freed up his defenses by moving another pawn to the middle of the board. His queen and bishop were now free to move, but his pawn was mine. Check.

     "Where are you from? I don't think you ever told me."

     "Right here in London. I've lived here all my life."

     Clive moved his king, releasing it from check. I wasn't letting him slip away that easily. I moved out my right-most pawn. He slid forward another of his own pawns to block me. No matter. I thrust my bishop into his ranks, taking out another pawn. 

     Time to get serious.

     "What do you know about the accidents?"

     Clive was frowning at the board, tapping the edge of the table. He looked up.

     "The accidents?"

     I sighed.

     "During her speech, Professor Rosen mentioned some sort of accidents occurring last term in the rotunda. What do you know about them?"

     "I was told several pupils were injured. Broke through some decaying floorboards or something like that."

     His expression was unreadable. I opened my mouth to ask another question, then I thought better of it. 

     "Strange." I said nonchalantly, "A school of Dreycott's standing having such structural damage."

     "It's an old school. I've been told they're working on renovations."

     "Sounds like you've been told a lot of things."

     "As have you, I'm sure." 

     We eyed each other for a moment, trying to read the other's thoughts. Finally, I spoke.

     "I have been told some things. But I've also seen the rotunda for myself."

     "And...?"

     I shook my head.

     "There were no signs of any sort of renovation going on. No equipment. No materials." 

     "Perhaps they've had a late start of it."

     "Perhaps. But I didn't see any damage either. The floor looked in good condition. Gemma and I walked on it. In fact, Trevor walked on it. And you know how he's built. If anyone would break through the floor, it would be him." I thought for a moment, "But he didn't even seem concerned about crossing the floor. Surely the _Patrol_ would know about the damage." 

     "That is a little odd. Maybe they'd already finished renovations, then?" Clive's eyes were hooded, he looked almost bored. But I knew he must be playing devil's advocate. Trying to push me toward some conclusion. 

     "No. Mrs. Goodson told Gemma and I that they were currently working on renovations. Ongoing. Besides, if they were finished, wouldn't they open the rotunda and those other hallways back up again?" 

     "So, you're saying that there is no renovations going on because there's no need? The floor is perfectly safe? Always has been?"

     "Yes, exactly."

     "Then, what? Mrs. Goodson was lying?"

     "Maybe she didn't know." I said quietly, "Or else she was trying to cover something up...what really happened to those students. " 

     I looked to Clive, but he had turned back to the board. He used a bishop to take out my own. Excellent. He had fallen for the trap I'd laid. Now I would be able to break through his lines.

     "I suppose it's only fair I ask you now. Where are you from?"

     Completely changing the subject. Not suspicious at all. Oh well, I still had the upper hand in the game.

     "Luxenbelle." I replied. 

     "Never been. Do you like it there?"

     Clive was breaking the rule, but I'd humor him.

     "Yes, I do. It's...quiet there. We live in this old ugly house the color of a lilac. Me, my dad, my mother, and grandad, that is. Or I did. Now I'm here."

     An ache bloomed in my chest. Home. Was it raining in Luxenbelle? Grandad always put the chess set in the kitchen on wet days. We would all gather there, even Pangur the cat, making it  warm and cozily cramped. I would play a game or two with my grandad, buried in an old afghan that smelled like newspapers. If he was home, Dad would work on the wooden birdhouse that had been his pet project for the last thirty years. Mum heaped fresh laundry across the counter so we could help her sort through socks. 

     "Amelia?"

     I looked up.

     "Sorry." I muttered. Deep breath. I noticed Clive had on a peculiar expression. Then he rubbed his brow and it was gone. 

     Turning back to the board, I moved my queen to f5, toward Clive's king. He had only one legal move. He slid his king away from my encroaching piece. I moved out another pawn, as did Clive, then placed my queen at f7. Clive moved his own queen beside it in response. It was time. I moved a pawn to g5, taking out another of Clive's and checking his king. My carefully positioned queen would keep him from retreat. 

     "Why _does_ Rosen give the Patrol so much power?" This was a nagging question of mine, but not the one I wanted answered most. That one I would save for last. 

     Clive shrugged.

     "You're guess is as good as mine, I suppose." 

     "Tell me about your guess."

     Clive settled back in his chair, folding his arms on the table top. 

     "Alright. It's quite simple really." 

     "Is it?"

     "Yes. Look around you, Amelia. Even if the rotunda's floor isn't rotten enough to break someone's leg, the place is in awful condition. And the number of pupils? A school this size could hold three times as many people."

     "You're right." I nodded, "The girls' dormitories are barely half full." 

     "The truth is, Dreycott's best days are behind it. It has its prestige and that's it. Too fusty for its own good. Rosen knows this. She knows she needs to get the coffers jingling somehow. So what does she do?"

     Clive didn't wait for me to give an answer.

     "She takes the children of the school's benefactors, the alumni, the blue-bloods and she hands them the keys to the school. Gives them whatever they want."

     "You think she's just trying to butter the parents up?"

     "Like dry toast."

     As he spoke, Clive moved his queen and captured my checking pawn.

     "What do you say to that?" 

     I bit my lip.

     "I don't know. I guess your theory sounds reasonable." I couldn't tell if Clive was keeping something back from me or not. I looked to him, but he was silent, staring forlornly at the board. I picked up my rook. The final blow was mine to deliver. I set it down on h5, capturing another of Clive's pawns in the process.

     "Checkmate."

     Clive flicked his king over and watched the piece roll back and forth across the board.

     Then he looked up at me with admiration in his gaze. "And I thought I knew a thing or two about chess. Just how long have you been playing?" 

     I blushed, despite myself. I didn't have many talents, but chess was something I was passionate about, even if I did consider it to be chiefly my grandfather's game. I was merely his acolyte. 

     "Thank you. My granddad taught me when I was six, so I've had plenty of time to practice." 

     "Hmm." 

     Clive closed his eyes and braced himself against the edge of the table, "I'm ready now. Do your worst." 

     For a moment I wasn't sure what he was talking about, but then I remembered. My final question.

     "Okay," I took in another deep breath as I thought of how to frame it, "I've noticed you don't have the best reputation here, at Dreycott I mean, and I was wondering why that is."

     Clive opened his eyes and I could see just a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

     "Well, that's a rather nice way of putting it." He made a sound that was somewhere between a helpless laugh and a sigh, "But you're right. The Patrol wants my head. Rosen would expel me if her hands weren't tied. I've broken more rules than I can count." 

     Was there just a hint of pride in his voice? I knew from experience just how easy it was to accidently overstep Dreycott's myriad of ordinances and regulations, but I had no doubt Clive was implying he broke the rules intentionally. But which rules? Or maybe asking why was the more important question. 

     "But why?"

     "Does there have to be a reason? Perhaps I'm just your average miscreant who thinks he can get away with anything."

     "I don't believe that. You stood up to the Patrol for me. I haven't seen else anyone do that. You see how wrong this whole school is. It's run by bullies and falling to pieces and everyone is so afraid of...something. Not just the Patrol. Something else." 

     There was a long pause. When he finally spoke, Clive voice was low. 

     "Yes. There is something very wrong at Dreycott."

     I leaned forward. 

     "What is it?" This was it. All of my other questions were only veins and vessels that lead to this one, the beating heart of the matter. 

     "I don't know." 

     I let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding in.

     "You...don't?"

     "I have pieces. Fragments of a story. For nearly three years I've followed leads that went nowhere, searching and scraping for all the information I could about this school and its past."

     "You think that whatever's wrong at Dreycott has to do with its past?"

     "The past is always connected to the present. You, me, this school, London, everything we are now all has to do with what we were. And Dreycott has a long, _long_ past."

     "You know you're being awfully vague."

     "I am, but I can't say anymore right now." Clive looked around, "Not here. Too many thin walls, too many ears."

     He took a pocket watch out of his jacket and examined it, then stood and pushed in his chair

     "I'm sorry. I have to go. I have a friend who's waiting for me." He adjusted his tie, but only succeeded in making it more crooked, "That was a great game, by the way. Perhaps you can give me a lesson or two sometime."

     "Erm, sure. See you later, I guess?"

     "We'll see."

     With that, Clive turned the corner of the bookshelf and vanished. As his footsteps echoed back to me, I settled into my chair, staring past the chess board at his empty seat. His answers had only managed to seed new questions in my mind. If anything, I was more confused than before. 

     My stomach grumbled quietly. Beyond the raindrops beading the window, the lawn was a pale, luminous blue. It was getting close to dinner time. I stood and stretched. The library was even quieter than before. Emptier. 

     As I turned back to the table to put the pieces in order, I realized that Clive had forgotten his book. It was still sitting there upon the edge.  I picked it up and flipped through it. Symbols, charts, and blocks of text paraded by in a flurry of black and white. Near the middle of the book, a piece of paper slipped out from amongst the fluttering pages and drifted to the floor. I bent down and picked it up. It was folded twice, the way one folds a sheet of paper to fit it in an envelope. I unfolded it and quickly read through the rows of small, hasty handwriting. 

     As I neared the end my eyes widened. Refolding the note, I slipped it into my  bag, and started for the door. From somewhere far beyond the library, a murmur of deep-seated thunder sent a shiver through the maze of shelves. And just for a moment, in the recesses of the lofty ceiling and in the lamps on the tables, the lights flickered. 

 


	4. Chapter Four

 

**Chapter Four**

_Long ago, at the edge of a small village, there sat a church with a crooked black steeple that pointed up at the clouds like a gnarled finger. The church was abandoned, save for a family of swallows who nested in the rafters. Their lives were blissful and undisturbed by the rest of the world. Then the cat arrived._

_The cat had no name, no master, and no scruples. What he did possess were claws, six on each paw, and a long tail dipped with white that would twitch left whenever he walked. The massive paws, the dab of white, these were the only warnings a swallow would receive before it  was itself swallowed by the gaping jaws of the cat. First a brother was taken, than a mother, an aunt, a cousin. The flock's numbers dwindled until those who remained were too afraid to even leave their nests.  
     "Something must be done." said the wisest of the flock, "Let us seek out the sparrow with the cream throat who lives at the edge of the wood beyond the church. For everyone knows out of all the birds, he is cleverest. Perhaps he can bring our foe down to an early grave."_

_This was deemed an excellent plan and so, the next day, a band of swallows made the jaunt from the church to the edge of the wood. When they found the sparrow, he told them they were right to seek his help. He had a scheme in mind that would keep them forever safe from the clutches of the cat._

_Winging his way to his friend the crow, the sparrow borrowed the item he needed for his plan. Upon his return, he showed it to the swallows. It was a silver bell dangling from a snip of twine. As he held it, it jingled merrily, now swinging left, now right, like the pendulum of an ecstatic clock._

_"I will tie this round the cat's neck and then he shall never be able to take you by surprise again."_

_Each swallow agreed in turn that this was, indeed, a clever solution. When the cat settled in for his afternoon nap, the sparrow was quick to loop the bell about his neck. As evening approached, the cat awoke and left his shady spot in search of supper. A nearby swallow caught his eye, but as he pounced the bell let out a gleeful alarm that frightened the bird away. Not one to give in so easily, the cat rolled himself in a nearby mud puddle. The mud caked the inside of the bell, sticking to the clapper and halting its noisy swinging. Silent once more, he slunk back into the church and made the swallows wail with grief._

_The band of swallows, smaller than ever, returned to the sparrow and asked for help once more._

_"This time I have an even better idea." the sparrow replied. He had his friend, Lady Spider, weave him a net of fine, sturdy threads and waited for the cat to enter the church after his evening stroll. As the cat passed the threshold, the sparrow released the net. Down it drifted and in an instant the cat was tangled, all twenty-four of his claws thrashing this way and that._

_"If you promise to leave the swallows alone and never return, I will gladly set you free. Otherwise, we will drag you down to the stream and let you drown."_

_"Would you really trust the word of cat?" he sneered in reply and with a sudden jerk, his claws ripped through the net, freeing him. That night, the cat dined on three swallows._

_The sparrow knew, then, he must take drastic action if he were to save the remnant of the flock. Back to the edge of the wood he flew to think on what should be done. On the way, he caught sight of a bush to the right of the road loaded with berries, blushing carmine and oozing juice sweet as cordial. The berries, he knew, were poison to all but the song birds who liked to greedily gulp them down. A new plan forming, the sparrow ate the berries all that day and the next, as many as he could, until his feathers were dyed scarlet, his bill was ruby, and the juices flowed sluggishly through his veins. He returned to the church and sat in wait.  The cat soon appeared._

_"Here I am, cat, and see, I have dyed myself with potent juice that will protect me from any attack of yours."_

_The cat could not resist a challenge, especially not one issued from prey so plump and sticky-sweet._

_"We'll soon see about that." he said and lunged. Clinging to his courage, the sparrow remained still, not resisting a moment the encroaching claws and the terrible teeth. The cat's jaws closed over his berry-stained throat. When the cat tasted the poison juice that soaked the bird's feathers, his blood, he reeled back in dread. But it was too late, the poison was swift. Cat and sparrow tumbled to the dust, blood and juice, feather and fur, commingling._

_Witnessing the entire event, right then and there the swallows lifted their voice as one._

_"Brave sparrow! Cleverest of birds! You've slain our foe, but gave your life in turn!"_

_In his honor, they used the berries to dye their throats red and so they do to this very day._

I glanced up from the page.  Gemma was slumped over her bowl of unfinished soup, her sagging head propped up by her arm.  Her glasses were foggy from the tendrils of steam still rising from the broth, making it impossible for me to tell whether or not her eyes had slipped shut during the course of the story. Around us, the dining hall was all clatter and clang.  Bright lights beamed down upon tables packed with jostling students and reflected off the darkened windows, masking the rain that was steadily descending. I only knew of it because of the sound, like a perpetual drumroll, that melded into the din.

"Did you catch all of that?"

Gemma straightened and yawned.

"I did. Now I want berries. Blackberries. Ooh, blackberry cobbler."

"But what do you think?"

Gemma slipped off her glasses and began to polish them on her sleeve.

"Sounds like Clive tried his hand at writing a bit of fiction and failed...miserably. It was shaping up to be a real heart-warmer until that gory ending." She paused, considering, "His descriptions of the berries were pretty good. He should think about writing for a food magazine."

"But this, at the very bottom."

I slid the creased paper across the table to Gemma, tapping at a single line that had been scrawled at the bottom of the page. The words matched the handwriting of the story, but were written in faint red ink.

"' _Within story, twelve scattered words reveal path to door. Begin at painting_.'" Gemma read aloud as she slipped on her glasses "Door....what door?"

"And which twelve words? What painting? There's no painting mentioned in the story."

"Vague. Very vague."

I sighed.

"Yes, vague does appear to be Clive's calling card."

"Ha. Vague. That word sounds funny now. Say it again. Vague. Vague."

I tugged on a strand of my hair. The pinch helped me to focus. I only wished Gemma could do the same.

"It has to be important. Suppose Clive meant for me to find it."

"And you're sure he wrote it?"

"It can't be a coincidence. Besides, he did tell me he liked to write."

Gemma picked up her spoon and took a long, loud sip from her bowl. When she was finished, she bent over the paper, squinting.

"Tell me again what he said to you?"

I thought back to my conversation in the library, to the thread of questions I had asked Clive, and the guarded answers he had given me in turn. It was more difficult than it should have been. I was tired and the continuous clamor around me was cutting in on my ability to think clearly. What I had really wanted to do was eat quickly so I could retreat to my room. I'd wanted to break Clive's story apart bit by bit, like one does with a bar of chocolate, and examine each individual word, looking for the answer to the red-inked instructions.

Before I could make my escape, however, Gemma had sat down, saw me slipping the paper in my bag, and knew instantly that something was up. It was one of her gifts. Once she caught a whiff of intrigue, a tantalizing glimpse of potential gossip, she would make like a hound until she had all the details laid neatly before her. I knew it would've been hopeless to try and keep everything from her, so I told her briefly about the game in the library before reading her the story I'd found.

"He told me that there's something wrong at Dreycott, very wrong." I finally said, "But he's not sure what it is exactly. Apparently, he's been investigating the matter for a while now."

"Investigating? What does he think he is, some kind of inspector?"

"Don't tell me you're not curious about what's going on around here."

Gemma snorted.

"I am. But I know well enough not to get inked into the Patrol's black book just because of it. And really, _they're_ what's wrong with Dreycott." Gemma looked around the crowded dining hall and then lowered her voice, "Get rid of the Patrol and everything'd be solved."

"I'm not so sure. What about the accidents? _Something's_ being covered up."

"I guess Mrs. Goodson did seem rather nervous, like she was hiding something. But what does any of that have to do with some bird story you found in a book Clive left behind?"

Her eyes were shining. A part of me was a bit annoyed by her barrage of questions, but another part was glad to have found someone as inquisitive as I was.

"I do think he left it behind intentionally." I thought back to one of the questions Clive had asked me during our game, "It's a puzzle of some sort."

"Oh, is that how a boy tells you he fancies you these days? Gives you puzzles to solve? And here I've been waiting for roses and bonbons." Gemma paused, then smiled slyly. "Clive _is_ pretty cute. Just needs to remember to iron his clothes every once in a while. And not get punched in the face so much."

I decided to ignore her implications.

"I got the feeling that he wanted to tell me more, but wasn't sure if he could trust me. Maybe giving me a puzzle is his way of testing me."

"Can _you_ trust _him_? Mrs. Goodson did tell you to keep your distance."

I hesitated.

"He stood up for me. He doesn't like the Patrol, that counts for something. He seems kind. I suppose I trust him." I felt I was speaking more to myself than Gemma, trying to convince myself. I wanted to trust Clive. I wanted to know I wasn't the only one searching for answers. Yet she had a point. Even given the chance to ask him any question I liked, I still knew very little about him. Apart from his answers and my own observations, I had only Gemma's rumors and Mrs. Goodson's warning to guide me. Neither painted him in a very flattering light.

Thunder rattled the windows.

"Hark. Zeus has given you a sign." Gemma winked, than yawned, "Are you finished yet? I've got a bin full of homework to do before bed. Seriously. I've taken to just dumping it in an actual rubbish bin. Ha, ha, okay maybe not."

I didn't reply. Outward noises and inward thoughts, a tempestuous swirl of questions and doubts, were battling for attention within my mind, making my temple throb.

 "Amelia?"

Gemma was peering at me with concern from behind her glasses. I pushed away my half-drained bowl absently.

"Yes. I need to finish my map of Africa for geography."

Gemma stood and picked up her tray of dishes.

"What you really need is a map of Clive's head. Wait, no. Scratch that. Creepy."

"A map..." I looked down at the story one last time, then carefully refolded it and placed it in my bag.

We handed our trays over to a member of the kitchen staff and started for the hallway. We passed the Patrol table on the way, lively as usual with its twenty or so silver-sashed occupants. Vivian seemed to be the current center of attention, telling some animated story that set the others off laughing. Two more Patrollers on dinner duty stood on either side of the entrance to the hallway, looking longingly over at their table. They barely acknowledged us as we passed between them.

Once we were free of the dining hall, Gemma started in on her usual stream of after-dinner chatter, which was very similar to her dinner chatter, a vigorous blend of cheerful commentary and ranting that often segued into whatever gossip she had picked up over the course of the day. Even more so than other evenings, I was only half-listening. We navigated the hallways with practiced ease (the route from the dining hall to the dormitories and vice versa was one of the few I had memorized) and ascended the stairs to the dormitories.

A group of girls passed us on the way up, giving us a wide berth. Gemma seemed not to notice as she started in on some rumor she had heard about Mr. Ebengrew's mother being a countess who had cut him off from the family money, but the act was not lost on me. It gave me yet another question to ponder. Other pupils were perfectly cordial to me when I was by myself, but when I was with Gemma there seemed to be an invisible barrier that encircled us, warning others to avert their eyes, keep their distance, or else whisper into the ear of a friend as they cast us sideways glances. Gemma had a few theatre friends who would talk with her, but even they were reticent when other pupils were nearby. More than anything I found it irritating, as no one at Dreycott seemed quite as friendly and open as Gemma. I saw absolutely no reason why she should be so ignored and avoided. Because she appeared not to mind her treatment in the slightest, however, I had kept quiet on the matter. I did so again as I turned away from the receding group of girls and tried retuning into Gemma's words.

"...and so that's why he decided to become a teacher. Or so he says. Pfft, like anyone would actually buy that sorry lie."

As we cleared the last step, I glanced at a picture hanging on the wall near the entrance to the dormitories. I abruptly stopped, my eye caught by a particular detail that had meant nothing to me until now. A few steps closer and I knew I wasn't mistaken. The painting was of a quaint village nestled amongst rolling green hills, but it wasn't the village that interested me. Near the edge of a dark wood, casting a shadow over the cobblestone streets and houses, was a black church with a crooked steeple.

"Gemma," I breathed.

Gemma had already passed through the double doors that led into the dorms, but popped her head back out when she heard me.

"Huh?"

"Come here."

She came and stood beside me, squinting at the painting.

"I know. Even I could paint something better than this, it looks like---ohhh."

We looked at each other. Gemma raised her eyebrows.

"Begin at painting." she repeated.

I quickly opened my bag and took Clive's story out.

"'A church with a crooked black steeple that pointed up to the clouds like a gnarled finger." I read, "The description matches the painting exactly."

"Okay. Okay. This is good. We're figuring it out. We start at this painting and, then, er, somehow we have to get to a door, right?"

"Right. 'Within story, twelve scattered words reveal path to door.'"

Gemma sighed.

"Which words, though? There's hundreds to choose from."

"There has to be some sort of clue within the story."

"Hmm. Maybe it's like an allegory or something. Clive is a cunning devil like the sparrow, right? And the cat could be the Patrol. The swallows are the other pupils. The church is Dreycott. Eh?"

I fiddled with one of my braids.

"It's an interesting theory. But how does it help us find the twelve words?"

Gemma's eyes widened.

"Oh my goodness. What if Clive's going to try and poison the Patrol? What if he's warning us of his plot?"

"Gemma."

"Yes. It all makes sense. Next time they serve us berry cobbler, it will be laced with arsenic and petrol, but Clive will have sent everyone who's not Patrol a secret lett---"

"Gemma."

Gemma flashed me an apologetic grin.

"Sorry. Sorry. Just joking."

I was quiet for a moment, allowing my thoughts to simmer.

"If they mark the path to the door, then the words must add up to be directions of some kind."

"So the twelve words spell out some sort of message?" Gemma replied, "On how to get to the door? Like 'Turn right, then left, and huzzah you've arrived?"

With narrowed eyes, I scanned through the story once more.

"You know...I think you might be on to something. What if the twelve words are directional?"

"Directional? What do you mean?"

"Like left, right, up, and down." I carefully read the first paragraph of the story, "Look. The word 'up', in the description of the church. 'A crooked black steeple that pointed 'up'."

"Are there more?"

I kept reading until I spotted the word 'left' in the description of the cat's tail.

"Yes. Here's 'left'...long tail... would twitch left whenever he walked....then 'down'....'right'."

Gemma bent over the story.

"Hey, yeah. This could be it." She rooted around in her bag and pulled out a pencil. "Here."

I quickly marked each directional word until we had a list of twelve:

_Up, Left, Down, Right, Left, Right, Left, Down, Up, Left, Right, Down, Right._

"So, the actual story is just a red herring. All that mattered were these twelve directions."

Gemma was practically bouncing up and down.

"C'mon, let's see where it leads."

I shot her a small smile.

"What about homework?"

"Ha, ha. Like you're not dying to find this stupid door."

"Okay, maybe." I glanced at the story, "The first one is up. Upstairs. Are there any other stairs on this hallway?"

"No. Wait, yes. There is."

I followed Gemma down the hallway and around the corner. At the end, to the left-hand side, was a flight of stairs.

"I don't think I've been up to the fourth floor before. Are we allowed up there?"

Gemma shrugged.

"It's nothing exciting, believe me. They mainly use it for storage. I think there were more dorms up there, once, back when the school was in its prime." She climbed the first few steps and looked back, "C'mon. No one will mind."

As we made our way up, I checked the story.

"Next is left."

Once we reached the top, we continued down the left-hand passage. Unlike the first three stories, the walls and floors here were mostly bare of any decor, allowing our footsteps to reverberate deeply. I marveled yet again at the size of Dreycott, at how much space it contained which seemed to serve no purpose. We passed door after closed door. I thought I heard a faint sound, a sort of scuffling, behind one, but by then Gemma was ahead of me, calling for me to read her the next direction.

We traipsed up and down stairs, through hallways, and around corners as the rain tumbled down behind black panes and thunder murmured of lightning, encountering few people along the way. At one point, a patroller stopped us and asked what we were doing, but Gemma resolved the issue by telling him we were trying to get a feel for the layout of the school. He looked a little suspicious, but let us pass. Finally, we came to the last word, "right", and turned into a corridor on the first-floor that led to a dead end.

"Is that it?" Gemma asked, looking around.

I scanned the list of directions again.

"I think so."

"Where's the door then?"

We stood facing a wall hung with a rather dreary portrait of an old woman in a stiff gown holding a dog in her lap.

"Maybe we did make a wrong turn somewhere." I was still running my eyes over the list of directions, trying to retrace the route we took.  

"Or maybe the door's behind this painting. Help me take it down."

"Gemma, I don't think---"

Before I could finish, Gemma had grabbed a hold of the painting's frame. She tried tugging it off the wall, frowned, and then felt along the left edge.

"Hinges." she declared.

"What?"

Gemma dug her fingers under the right side of the painting's frame and pulled. With a laborious creak the painting swung away from the wall, attached by a rusted set of hinges.

Gemma beamed.

"What did I tell you?"

I stepped closer and examined what was clearly not a door, but a wooden panel of some sort.

There was a block of words carved into the panel in small delicate script. Beneath the words were a row of square tiles, each printed with a letter of the alphabet. I squinted at the writing above the tiles and read aloud:

_"I am the only possession the dead may clasp_

_I, whom the living can never fully grasp_

_For as soon as there is but a single soft gasp_

_Then do my powers begin surely to lapse."_

"A riddle? Ooh, I love riddles." Gemma frowned, " I'm just not very good at them."

I gazed at the panel.

"I wonder...why is this here?"

"I bet if we solve the riddle, a secret door will open! Golly, this night is turning out so much better than I planned. Thank you, Clive Dove."

"A door to where?"

"Let's focus on solving the riddle first." Gemma clasped her chin and began pacing in front of the panel. "Okay, the only possession the dead may clasp...what can a dead guy own?"

I folded my arms.

"Nothing. He's dead."

Gemma stopped and raised her index finger in triumph.

"Nothing! That must be it."

"But that doesn't really make sense with the second part. What kind of powers does 'nothing' have?"

"True. Nothing can't have powers because it's nothing, right? Whew, did that make sense what I just said?"

I nodded.

"What about a tombstone? A coffin? Clasp. My great-aunt Mildred was buried holding her favorite handbag. You could say she was _clasping_ it."

"It has to be more general than that. It says 'the dead', not your Aunt Mildred."

Gemma frowned and tapped her foot sporadically.

"I know that. I'm just thinking out loud. Wait!"

I looked at her intently.

"In ancient Greece, all you needed when you died was a coin to pay the ferryman so you could cross the river of dead." Gemma scrunched up her nose, "They'd stick it in your mouth. Like, why not put it in your hand? I'm sure Charon liked slobber all over his obolus, right?"

While there were times when I could follow along on Gemma's Greek mythology rants, a topic of great personal interest to her, on other occasions I had no idea what she was talking about. I'm sure she felt the same way whenever I tried to explain the Queen's Gambit or some other chess tactic to her. We had both learned the best practice when either of us started speaking gibberish was to simply change the subject, which I did now.

"The living can never fully grasp it." I said, "Grasp could mean understand. You can't understand whatever it is until you're dead."

"But if you're dead, you can't understand anything. You can't really own anything. Ugh."

"Let's focus on the second part." I suggested.

"Um, alright. A single soft gasp. Why would that cause the whatsits' power to lapse?"

"To lapse means to fail or to decline." I said slowly. I let out a small gasp.

Gemma grabbed my wrist.

"You got it?"

I sighed.

"No, I was just trying to figure out what a gasp can do."

"A gasp can't _do_ anything. It's just a sort of sound you make when you're surprised."

"Yes, it's a sound.... Gemma, let's both be quiet for a moment."

Gemma opened her mouth to protest, then reconsidered, her mouth slightly agape. We both stood still, glancing around the hall, straining our ears. There was about an hour until curfew now and the hallways were mostly clear of students. I could hear the ticking of a clock from down the hall, the echo of a pair of shoes on steps, and the faint timpani of rain.

"It's so quiet." Gemma said after a moment.

"But not completely silent."

"Silent enough."

"But can someone really experience true silence? There's always some little sound. A scuffling, a wind, even your own breath and heartbeat."

"I've never thought about it that way, but yeah." Gemma's eyes widened, "The living can never fully grasp... Silence!"

"Only the dead." I agreed, "Introduce even the smallest of sounds in a space and the silence diminishes.

"Silence is all the dead possess." Gemma murmured, "Morbid. I like it."

"It's the answer."

I leaned forward and pressed the correct sequence of tiles, spelling out "silence". There was a sharp, metallic click and then the middle section of the wall popped slightly out of its frame. Gears ground and gnashed their teeth as the section began to slide to the left, revealing a black space beyond. When the section finally stopped, bringing the hidden gears to rest, its former place was now a gaping entrance. The light of the corridor illuminated narrow wooden steps that descended into the darkness until they suddenly vanished as if wiped from existence.

"Whoa." Gemma said, "The underworld awaits."

"It's too dark." I said, shuffling closer until I stood at the threshold. The air in the passage was stagnant and musty, like the breath of a slug. "Besides, we don't know where it goes."

"Clive obviously meant for you to find it. It probably goes somewhere important."

"I wonder if it connects to Professor Rosen's study." I mused, thinking of one of my grandfather's favorite school stories.

"Let's see if anyone has a torch we can borrow and then we can..." Gemma's words faded away. Measured footsteps were coming from down the hallway. We turned to see a figure round the far corner and continue towards us at a steady pace. With a yelp, Gemma latched onto my arm and dragged me through the doorway down several steps.

"Gemma, wait---"

Shh! It's that patroller!"

"We can't hide here!" I whispered.

"Too late!"

Gemma took another step downward and faltered, stretching out her arms to the walls on either side of the stairs to balance herself. 

"You okay?"

Yeah, but there's something..." There was a dull clunk. Behind us, the wall began to slide back into its original position.

I turned to Gemma, her eyes wide behind glasses that reflected the light streaming through the opening. The band of light grew thinner and thinner until it was completely cut off with a decisive lurch and the wall settled back into place, sealing us in.

"Oops."

Breathing as quietly as we could, we listened as the footsteps drew near the wall. The hinges on the painting creaked.

"He's trying to get in." Gemma's nails were digging into my arm, "What do we do?"

"Calm down." I whispered back.

"We should keep going."

The nails released my throbbing skin and a step below me creaked.

"Gemma, wait!"

"Look, there's a light ahead."

With my arms outstretched, palms pressed against the walls like Gemma, I carefully made my way down the steps. Some distance into the darkness, a faint golden glow was flickering.

Above, the wall rattled.

"C'mon, maybe it will lead to another way out."

I glanced back up the stairs, bit my lip, and followed Gemma.

As the two of us began our way through the passage, I cannot say that I wasn't a little disappointed. One can get such silly romantic notions about hidden passageways from reading stories, and the peculiar riddle guarding this particular passage had left me hoping that such notions were true. Unfortunately, the secret passageway was nothing more than a low, dank tunnel strung with cobwebs and smelling of mildew and rusted pipes. The ceiling was just high enough for me to walk upright, while beneath my feet, the floor creaked, as if it were uncertain that it could support our combined weight.

We rounded a corner and emerged, blinking, into a small, dimly lit chamber.  In the middle of the room a moldering velvet settee sat amidst piles of discarded objects that had overtaken nearly all of the floor space. Wooden chairs missing legs slumped against vegetable crates heaped with books and yellow-tarnished newspapers. Several large paintings leaned against the wall in one corner, while in another an old gramophone hunched like a forlorn vagrant. Scattered amongst the rubbish, sitting atop the crates and chairs, were several lit candles. They flickered silently, like a vigil held within a tomb.

"Creepy." Gemma said with obvious relish. She turned to me, strange shadows playing across her face, "What now?"

Before I could reply, the muffled sound of gears grinding came from down the passageway.

"Hide." I said. I leapt behind the settee and crouched down while Gemma ducked behind a stack of crates. She picked up a discarded chair leg and gripped it like a club.

"Just in case," She mouthed to me as creaking footsteps started down the stairs. Shoulders tense, ears straining, we waited as the footsteps reached the bottom of the steps and then started for the chamber.

_Crrrreak-crrrrr._

_Crrrreak-crrrrr._

_Crrrreak-crrrrr._

_Crrrreak---_

Clive stood blinking in the threshold of the chamber, as Gemma leapt out from behind her hiding place, swinging her chair leg with a tremendous growl.

"Arrrrrgggh!"

I stood up, nearly tripping over a nearby broom handle.

"Gemma, don't!"

In one fluid motion, Clive sidestepped Gemma right before she barreled into him. She stumbled out into the passageway and twisted around, breathing hard, still gripping the chair leg, as he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Please don't bean me over the head with that whatever you do."

Gemma dropped her makeshift weapon.

"Clive!?"

I stepped out from behind the settee.

"What are you doing down here?"

Clive turned to me, his arms drifting to his sides.

"Hello, Amelia. Didn't think you'd see me again so soon, did you?"

"Not down here, anyway."

 Gemma let out a weak laugh.

"I'm so sorry. I honestly thought you were a Patroller."

"You would hit a Patroller?" Clive asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I would if I had to." she replied, "Now, care to explain why you're following us?"

Clive turned back to me and gave me an approving nod.

"Amelia, you solved my puzzle. Excellent. I knew you would."

"Ahem."

Gemma had her hands on her hips.

"And you're..."

"Gemma, thank you. And I already know your name, Mr. Infamous Clive Dove."

"So I see."

I stepped toward Gemma.

"Gemma helped me figure out your story. But, Clive, what is this all about?"

"I couldn't talk as freely as I would've liked to earlier. I needed to meet with you somewhere safer."

"You wanted Amelia to meet you down here alone?" Gemma asked.

"We're not alone." Clive said, "Who do you think lit these candles?"

Gemma and I shared a look.

"What?"

Clive glanced about the room, shifting his feet in a small circle. Something caught his eye and he smirked.

"Ah."

He stepped past us and bent down near a particularly large crate. With a bit of effort, he pushed it aside, revealing a small boy tucked into the corner, sitting cross-legged with his head bent over a leather-bound tome. Embossed in gold letters on the tome's spine was the title _Abnormal Psychology_.

"Hello, Bernard. Doing some light reading?"

"WHAT?"

Gemma looked aghast. She pointed at the boy with an accusatory finger.

"You were here the whole time and you didn't say anything?"

The boy glared at her. He had thick eyebrows that hung low over his eyes and a small puckered scowl. His forehead wrinkled, ploughing deep furrows in his brow.

"How was I supposed to know who you were?" The boy shut his book and stood up. He was several centimeters shorter than me, but looked to be a year or two older. His large ears glowed pink against the candlelight.

"Clive said to meet him here and next thing I know the two of you come barging in like you own the place."

Before Gemma could respond, Clive spoke up.

"Bernard, this is Amelia and---"

"I already know Mudget." Bernard cut in quickly, shooting suspicious glances at us both.

"Yes, we're in the same year, aren't we, _Trewinkle_?"

A scarlet tinge crept into Bernard's ears.

"Clive, I hope you know what you're doing," he growled.

"I do. Although Gemma is a bit of a surprise."

"Leave then." Bernard said to her, "You heard Clive, Mudget. He doesn't want you here." Bernard turned to Clive, "We can't trust her anyway, she's...she's---"

"I'm what?" Gemma snapped. Her playful tone was gone.

"Annoying, for starters."

Clive looked at each of us in turn, frowning.

I cleared my throat. Bernard's head whipped in my direction.

"Whatever you have against Gemma, Bernard, she helped me figure out Clive's story and solve the riddle. She has just as much right to be here as I do." I turned to Clive, "I'll stay if Gemma can stay."

Clive considered this for a moment, then he nodded.

"Fair enough."

"What? No!" Bernard protested, "Don't I get a say in any of this?"

"I don't think it would do much good sending Gemma off now." Clive replied. Gemma smiled.

"That's right. You wouldn't want  the secret of your hidey-hole to be spread throughout the school, now would you?"

Bernard groaned.

"Fine. Whatever. No one ever listens to the one with the brain, the one with reason. Now, Clive, please explain to me what's going on. We don't have much time before curfew."

Clive didn't answer. He was studying me again. Resisting the urge to lower my eyes, I gazed back, keeping my face unreadable.

"You bested me at chess, Amelia. You solved my puzzle. I think it's only fair I tell you everything I know about Dreycott's secret. I wanted to say more in the library, but there were too many people about and---"

"And you had to test me first?"

"Something like that." Clive agreed with an apologetic shrug.

"It's alright. I enjoyed your story."

"It was depressing." Gemma countered.

"I'm afraid fiction isn't my strong suit."

"Ahem." Bernard folded his arms, "If all you three are going to do is chatter like girls in the lavatory, I think I'll get back to my reading."

Gemma stepped toward him.

"For your information, two of us _are_ girls, Trewinkle, so if you're just going to---"

"Have a seat." Clive cut in quickly, gesturing around the cluttered room. "Sorry for the mess. This place has become our hideout of sorts. It's safe from prying patrol eyes, anyway."

Clive sat down on a nearby stool, retrieving the small notebook he kept in his jacket pocket.  I sat across from him on the settee.  Gemma slid down the wall onto the floor, tucking her legs under her. She stuck her tongue out at Bernard, but he ignored her and remained standing, looking like a badger reluctantly coaxed from its den.

"This isn't a good idea." he muttered.

After flipping through his notes, Clive looked up at me, his eyes sharp and bright as they caught the candlelight, and asked a single question.

"Tell me, have you ever heard of the Sentient Statue?"


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Clive's question lingered in the air as silence fell upon the room. Neither Gemma nor Bernard appeared willing to answer and I wasn't sure what to say myself. I had never heard of any Sentient Statue before. I couldn't imagine what such a thing would be. Sentient wasn't a word one used very often, but I knew it indicated something that lived, breathed, and thought, traits not usually applied to a carved chunk of rock.

I glanced up from my lap where my eyes had automatically drifted. Clive was still looking at me intently. Did he expect me to know what he was referring to? And why was he always staring, as if he thought he could read my thoughts like a page of neatly typed text just by doing so. It was getting on my nerves.

 I shifted in the settee. He'd have to try harder than that if he wanted to know what I was thinking. I knew how to seal every flicker of emotion away beneath a cool and steady gaze of my own. Or at least I had thought so. Back home I could do it so well. Yet since coming to Dreycott I had started to notice how easily unwanted feelings slipped through the cracks, especially when the situation was wresting itself from my hands. My messy first encounter with the Patrol was a testament to that. I still felt a fresh sting of shame whenever I remembered how I had acted that night, for letting complete strangers see a misty-eyed child crying over a chess piece instead of a young woman who was capable of standing up for herself. For letting Clive see. No matter. I had more than proved myself by winning that chess game and solving his string of puzzles, hadn't I? I had come to this hidden room of my own accord and I could walk out just as easily. I couldn't allow myself to become flustered. Straightening in my seat, I let my facial muscles relax. I was just about to give a reply when Gemma spoke up.

"Sentient Statue? You mean, like, in Pygmalion?" She was impatient, couldn't wait any longer for me to answer. It was apparent she had no idea what Clive was talking about either.

Bernard snorted loudly, shattering the atmosphere of beguiling intrigue that had been created with the question.

"Pig _what_?"

Gemma narrowed her eyes at him from across the room.

"Pig _you_ if you keep making noises like that."

Clive flashed me an exasperated look. Either he was annoyed at Gemma and Bernard's bickering or else he was finally annoyed at me for bringing Gemma. Probably both. I took it as an opportunity to speak up.

"I've never heard of it before."

"Of course." he replied, regaining his composure, "I didn't expect you would. Professor Rosen has done a tremendous job keeping everyone in the dark about it."

"Except for you, I presume?"

The hint of a sly smile crept onto Clive's mouth.

"True. But I owe that to Bernard." Clive glanced at Bernard, who scowled and shuffled his feet.

"Trewinkle? What's he got to do with it?" Gemma asked.

"A lot more than you." Bernard snapped.

Clive started in before Gemma could sling anything back.

"As I said in the library, I've been poking around Dreycott ever since my first year. From the moment I walked through the front doors, I realized there was something a little off about the whole school.  The Patrol was part of it, of course, but there were other things. There was a teacher who was let go and no one seemed to know the reason why. Several pupils were terribly ill for almost a week. Another pupil claimed to have heard strange sounds in the middle of the night. In and of themselves, not so extraordinary. But taken together.... I couldn't help but feel something sinister was happening at Dreycott right beneath everyone's noses. So I started investigating, asking questions, gathering information," Clive shook his head, "I was never able to uncover anything concrete. Substantial. After a while, I began to wonder if it was all a waste of time. But then, last term, Bernard gave me my biggest lead."

"The Sentient Statue."

I was sitting on the edge of the settee now, fiercely twisting one of my braids round and round my finger. The candlelight glinted off the woven blond strands, making them glow like fire. My earlier irritation with Clive was all but forgotten. Now all I felt was the hungry pull of anticipation. Finally. This was what I had been waiting for.

"Yes, it all started last May," Clive glanced at Bernard, giving him a significant look. Bernard blinked.

"What?"

"You tell."

"No. This was your idea. You do it."

"But it happened to you. It's only right that you tell it." There was an edge of frustration to Clive's voice, "I know it's hard for you, but---"

"Fine." The word sounded as if it had been squeezed quite unwillingly from the small boy's chest. Looking like he was taking upon himself the biggest burden in the world, he let out a conspicuous huff that made Gemma snigger.

"Fine." He repeated.

He turned to me, scrunching his bushy eyebrows in concentration. I absently tugged on one of my baggy socks as I waited for him to begin.

"I was the first one to see it," he finally mumbled, "What appeared to be... a living, breathing statue."

I didn't know what to say to this. Even Gemma looked unsure, her brow now creased as she processed the words. Clive's expression was unreadable, his eyes hooded as he clasped his chin pensively.

When it appeared all of us were waiting for further explanation, Bernard continued on.

 "It was after dinner and  I was heading back to the dormitories from the library. I started off, going the same route I always took. Then, somehow, I got turned around and wound up in the eastern wing. I tried back-tracking, but that just made me more confused. The next thing I knew I was standing at the entrance to the rotunda."

Gemma and I shared a look.

"Yes, that's right." Bernard's voice was less strained. He was getting into the story, his eyes cast faraway as he focused on recreating the world of his memory. "No one was there at that time of night, of course. I started walking towards a door across the room, trying to get my bearings. But when I was halfway there the lights flickered, then went out."

"A storm?" Gemma asked, her eyes narrowed as if trying to remember something.

"Not a storm." Clive answered, "In fact, if I remember correctly, it was very calm that evening."

"I thought it was must be prank, me being the wimpy little first-year that I was." Bernard continued, "Patrollers with nothing better to do. Felix Rimswald and his gang. So I called out, loud as I could, 'Ha, ha. Hilarious, you incompetent morons. How clever of you.'" Bernard shrugged, "But no one answered or laughed or anything. Then I heard---" He swallowed suddenly, his ears tingeing pink, "Well, a girl singing or, really, it was more like humming. And I could see a bit then. There was a bit of light, but very faint, milky light. I couldn't tell you where it came from. And then I saw her." Bernard closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. His next words were so quiet I had to strain my ears to make them out. "A living statue."

"What do you mean by living?" I asked.

Bernard's eyes snapped open, an irritated look souring his expression, "It was a statue. A girl made out of stone. Her dress and her hair were stiff and she was mottled just like stone. I could even see lichen on her. And she was moving just like you'd imagine a statue to move if it could. Very slow. You could hear the stone grinding and grating," Bernard glared at his hands, "Of course, I don't think that's what it really was. Scientifically impossible. But how else am I supposed to describe it? It looked exactly like a statue, but moving and breathing."

"Not just any statue," Clive added.

I glanced at him.

"What do you mean?"

"It was the same statue as the one on the fountain in the courtyard," Bernard said quietly, "I swear it was. I couldn't see her face all that well, but her dress was exactly the same. More ragged, perhaps. So was her hair. But it was her."

 I thought back to the melancholy statue I had observed my first evening at Dreycott. It had seemed comforting then, a silent companion, but now I imagined its expression containing a hint of malice.  I turned to look back down the tunnel, past the reach of the candles' dim glow, half-expecting to see a pale figure emerging from the blackness beyond.

"You do know how crazy that sounds," Gemma said. "Completely and totally banana nut muffins."

"Of course you wouldn't believe me, Mudget." Bernard squeezed his folded arms tighter against his chest, hunching his shoulders. "No one does." He added in a low tone.

"Don't be melodramatic. I never said I didn't believe you."

"I don't care what you think. It really happened whether you want to believe it or not."

"Keep going, Bernard." Clive said.

Bernard furrowed his brow deeper. He looked a bit like a scruffy old owl.

"I didn't know what to do at first. I could only stare. I felt very numb and cold," Bernard's face had gone very white. I finally noticed his freckles, each one standing out like a speckle of paint. "And then they dropped from the ceiling."

There was a pause. Bernard didn't appear to want to say anymore. His eyes had moved from his hands and fixated upon the debris littering the floor.

"What dropped from the ceiling?" I asked, gently.

Bernard's eyes darted over to Gemma and back.

"Puppets," The word was a mere breath.

"What?" Gemma leaned forward, "Puppies?"

"I'm not going to repeat myself. They all dropped from the ceiling, horrible hideous things with their long jangly arms and legs, strings everywhere, all twisted up."

"Wait, did you say puppets?" Gemma was trying to suppress a grin.

"Yes, Bernard has pupaphobia." Clive told her, "A fear of puppets."

"No offense, but that's sort of kind of funny."

Bernard shot both of them dark looks.

"How is that _not_ offensive? And thank you so much, Clive, for pointing out the obvious. Your knowledge of phobias, which you learned from me by the way, astounds us all. And anyway these weren't ordinary puppets, they were puppets from hell, the most ghastly grins, bug eyes, ugh, anyone would be..." He trailed off as his ears reddened further. I tried giving him a sympathetic look, but he wouldn't meet my eyes.

"To be all alone in the dark and have that happen...I would be scared." I said.

Bernard finally looked at me, but his expression was testy.

"Scared? You think that's all I was?" He shook his head, "There's no word to describe it. What I felt. Like I'd fallen from a cliff and was drowning in a foul, stenching conglomeration of black oily---"

" _Bernard_." Clive gave his head an almost imperceptible shake, looking like he might either be embarrassed or trying to keep himself from laughing.

"Wow. Thanks for that stunning mental image." Gemma hesitated,  "And, er, you're absolutely certain you weren't imagining things?" She wasn't being funny this time.

"How stupid do you think I am? Of course I wasn't imagining things. I have a terrible imagination. I am one of the least imaginative people at this school."

"Sadly true." Clive said with a small smile.

"I dunno, that was a pretty imaginative simile you just made about the cliff," Gemma added.

Bernard was now splitting his glare between the three of us.

"You want to hear the rest or not? Because I really don't feel liking telling this story again."

"We're sorry." I said, "Please, continue."

Bernard let out another long breath.

"Like I said, there was no way I imagined it. They were everywhere, dropping from the ceiling, in front of me, behind. It all happened so fast. I dropped to the ground too, I think, or tripped or something and covered my head, prayed it was only my imagination, just a bad dream. Or if I was going to die, that it would happen quickly. Next thing I knew, the lights were back on and two patrollers were standing over me."

"And the statue?"

Bernard shook his head.

"No sign of her or the blasted puppets. Gone."

"It's true." Clive flipped through his notebook absentmindedly, "There was nothing there. I followed the patrol to the rotunda, you see, thinking something might be afoot. And Bernard really wasn't imagining things because after that---"

"After that?" Gemma prodded.

"The statue appeared two more times." Bernard said.

"Right. The statue has appeared three times total. It was more or less the same story with the next two pupils. Both somehow ended up alone in the rotunda. The lights went out, the statue appeared, and then they each encountered what they feared most."

"So, with Bernard it was puppets..." Gemma mused aloud.

"We've established that." Bernard said.

"Yes. Colin Turner was the next one to see the statue. Apparently, he found himself in the middle of a thunderstorm right there in the rotunda. And he wasn't imagining it either, because when the patrol found him he was absolutely soaked. Edith James was the last one. Claims she saw the statue and then heard hundreds of voices whispering all around her. As you can imagine, after each incident the pupil who saw the statue went into somewhat of a state of shock. Colin and Edith both ended up leaving for home. Neither returned this term."

"But not you, Bernard?" I asked.

"How could I?" Bernard said. "My dad's a teacher here. You know what he told me when he found out? He said I had a Vitamin D deficiency. My own dad thought I hallucinated puppets because I wasn't taking my supplements properly!" Bernard kicked a nearby crate.

"What about Professor Rosen? Did you speak with her?"

"I did. Fat lot of good that did. She told me it was all a prank, that the pupils responsible would be caught and expelled. I wasn't to mention the incident to anyone."

My mind was whirring. I was finally putting everything together.

"So the accidents Professor Rosen mentioned in her speech. She was actually referring to the Sentient Statue? The whole rotting floorboards renovation story _was_ made up."

"Right." Clive said, "Somehow she's managed to keep the real story under tight wraps. I don't know what she told the families of the two pupils who left, but no one is pursuing any legal action against the school, as far as I know. Most of the high-ranking patrollers know the truth, of course. And I learned it when I got Bernard to tell me."

"How did you manage that?" Gemma asked with a smirk.

"Clive was the only willing to believe me," Bernard said, "Even before he knew the whole story."

"It's all so incomprehensible." I said quietly, "A sentient statue? Surely it...I mean it has to be some sort of trick."

I wasn't one to believe in ghosts or anything of that sort. My grandad had always told me that people often saw exactly what they wanted to see. A shiver, a furtive noise, a flickering light, all could easily become restless spirits, if only in the minds of those who believed in such things. But it didn't appear that Bernard fell under that category. As he himself had argued, he didn't seem at all the sort to entertain such fantasies. That left only one option. Anything else simply couldn't be possible.

"Of course." Gemma was pacing the small room now, too full of inquisitive energy to sit any longer. "Smoke and mirrors. And I'll bet you a ticket to Covent Garden the Patrol is behind it. Rosen too. They want to keep everyone in line by scaring them half to death."

"But remember," Clive put in, "The statue only appeared to three pupils, two of which are now gone. Not a very effective method of discipline."

"And Rosen doesn't want anyone to know about the statue." I added, "Which is understandable, I suppose. Something like this could put the school in very hot water."

"Okay," Gemma said, "Scrap that. What if it is a real ghost or possessed statue or something? Don't tell me you've never had your little neck hairs stand up at some point here. This place is probably more haunted than the Tower of London."

"It was terrifying, I'll admit," Bernard said, "But ghosts are only the result of hypnagogic hallucinations that occur in a transitional dormant state stemming from a number of environmental factors that cause the seer to unconsciously perceive an area as haunted. And, like I said, I was certainly not hallucinating."

Gemma's smirk returned.

"Well, that clears things up."

"Did many people know about your phobia, Bernard?" I asked, a thought suddenly occurring to me.

"No. I never told anyone. Why would I?"

"Aha! So it must be something supernatural!"

Bernard rolled his eyes at Gemma.

"Just like that then? That's the only plausible solution you can think of?"

"It's no use." Clive was scowling, "We simply don't have enough evidence to say why it happened or how. We can't even make a decent guess without falling back on conjecture." He paused, considering something. "If it is all a trick, what could someone possibly seek to gain from it? The results don't seem to be worth the amount of effort it would take to pull off such a stunt."

"Someone could be trying to close the school down." Gemma offered.

Clive shook his head.

"Like I said, until we know more, it's all conjecture."

"Have you examined the statue in the courtyard?" I asked. This seemed to me the first order of business.

"Yes. Several times." Clive shook his head dismissively, "It's just an ordinary statue."

"And the statue hasn't appeared at all this term, right?"

"Right. Three times last term. That's it." Clive paused, staring at the cluttered floor, "What I really need is to see it for myself."

"You think it's going to appear again?" Gemma said, "But how would you ever know when exactly? It's completely random, right?"

Clive straightened.

"That's why I've been researching Dreycott's past, trying to find out as much about that fountain in the courtyard as I can. Unfortunately, there isn't much."

"We need the book." Bernard muttered.

"Wait, what book?" It was my turn to sit up straighter.

"A book on Dreycott's history." Clive said.

"That sounds helpful." Gemma said, "Where is it?"

"There's only one copy and it's in the library's special collection."

"Oh." Gemma wrinkled her nose.

I glanced between the two of them.

"I still don't see the problem."

Clive sighed.

"The special collection, as ridiculous as it sounds, is only open to the Patrol. One of their many perks."

"That does throw a wrench in things."

"What?" Gemma pointed at Clive, "Aren't you Mr. Rule-breaker-extraordinare? Don't tell me you're not capable of breaking into the library and sneaking a peek."

Clive sighed.

"You give me too much credit. I've never done anything on that scale before. Besides, I'm one misstep from being expelled, even with---never-mind."

I wanted to question him further on this, but decided there were more pressing matters to attend to.

"And this book, it's your only lead?"

"The only one I can think of. It might offer some clue about the statue, it's origins, any stories connected to it, that would allow us to piece together when it would appear again."

 " _If_ it appears again." Bernard added, "Rosen's been working like mad to ensure that won't happen."

"Is that the reason behind all the new rules?" I asked, "The early curfew?"

"Most likely." Clive said, "She may be strict, but Rosen does seem like she's genuinely trying to keep everyone here safe. I've still been keeping my eye on her, of course."

"Well, I say we break in, bank-heist style." Gemma said.

"Fortunately, you're not the one deciding the plan." Bernard replied.

"I can make suggestions, can't I, Tinkle-winkle?"

"No and if you call me that again I will walk straight out of this room and go fetch a patroller. Vivian, if I can manage."

"Not unless I fetch your best buddy Felix first."

"There is one other option." Clive spoke slowly, carefully. "Bernard's going to try out for the Patrol."

"What?" Gemma suppressed a laugh, "I'm sorry, but I can't see that happening."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Bernard grumbled.

"It's true, his chances are slim, but we have to at least give it a shot."

"Why don't you try out, Clive?" Gemma's tone was teasing. He gave her a look.

"I think you know very well why."

"Well, don't look at me." Gemma said, "Vivian hates my guts."

Clive turned to me.

"What about you, Amelia?" His voice was nonchalant, but I saw the glint in his eye, "Ever thought of trying out for the Patrol?"

And then I could see it. All of it made sense now. The "chance" encounter in the library, the chess game, Clive's note, Bernard's story. Everything had been leading to this question, like a row of dominoes falling neatly in a line, nudged by Clive's own careful finger. I had to hand it him. He was quite the mastermind. For some reason, I felt a drop of disappointment, but I shoved it aside.

"Wait." I stood up, "Wait a minute. This. This is the real reason you wanted my help, isn't it?" I wanted to be angry, but felt too triumphant. I was catching on. Past the friendly gestures and gentlemanly manners, Clive was like his pocket watch--- all calculated cogs and gears, turning with well-oiled precision.

Clive stared back, nearly expressionless. He finally closed his eyes. Gemma and Bernard looked at us both with slight frowns, their own feud forgotten. Waiting.

"Yes and no." Clive's eyes remained shut, "I do want you to try out for the Patrol, but that's not the only reason I want your help."

"But Clive, you told me yourself Rosen uses the Patrol to...to cozy up to rich parents. Why would she ever choose me? My family doesn't have any money."

Clive ran a hand through his hair.

"I know what I said. And it's true. But there are multiple factors that go into the selection process. There's an exam. If you do well enough on it, you may have a chance. And then there's an interview with Rosen. If you can manage to impress her, show her how trustworthy you could be..."

"Seems much too complicated." Gemma piped up uneasily, "Can't we just ask someone on the Patrol to borrow the book for us? Bribe them or something? There's got to be someone."

We all remained silent.

"Ursula isn't so bad." I finally relented, thinking of one of Vivian's assistants who seemed polite, if not exactly friendly.

"We can't trust the Patrol." Clive said, "I don't want anyone to know what we're up to. If Rosen or the Patrol are somehow involved, we can't risk having them putting up their guard and cracking down even harder than what they've already done."

"But to try and join the Patrol just for a book..." I didn't like the idea. And I still couldn't see why Clive had singled me out as the ideal candidate.

"It's not just the book. If you or Bernard managed to get on the Patrol you'd have a direct line to Rosen. You'd be able to really see what goes on around here. That could prove to be vital to my investigation."

I sat back down in the settee.

"You want me to be your spy."

"You or Bernard."

"But you think I have the best chance." I shook my head. "I don't understand. Why me?"

"Why not you? I know you do well in your classes. You're quiet, obedient, an all around good pupil with every reason to want to try out for the Patrol. No one would be suspicious in the slightest."

"Am I even old enough?"

"There are several positions for junior patrollers open this term. You get most of the privileges, but fewer responsibilities. Near the end of term there'll be the exam, then the interviews, and at the term's closing assembly Rosen will announce her picks. You'd start up first thing next term."

I gripped a loose strand of my hair and pulled hard, wincing at the pinch. Clive had answered all of my objections. I couldn't think of anything else to say that would convince him of how much I opposed the idea without simply giving him a flat no. And I was opposed. Hobnobbing with the over-privileged bullies of Dreycott in order to spy on them was an idea so far from anything I would ever attempt it seemed ridiculous to even consider. Overwhelming too. The evening, like a wide tree trunk, had split off and twisted into so many branches and twigs that it made be exhausted to try and follow  them all. Riddles, ghosts, statues, puppets, and the Patrol to boot. I suppose the last one wasn't so surprising. They always seemed to be at the center of everything.

"Clive," Bernard looked tired, "It's nearly eight. We need to get back."

Clive pulled his watch from his jacket and checked the time.

"Right, but we'd better leave one at a time. I'll go first. Bernard you bring up the rear."

"Yeah, bring up the rear, Trewinkle." Gemma echoed, but her voice had lost its earlier zest. Bernard stared at her impassively, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Clive took a small torch from his pocket and flicked it on. He stepped into the tunnel and waved us forward. Gemma and I followed him as Bernard extinguished the candles until the room behind us was nothing more than gaping darkness.

"So, how did you find this place?" Gemma asked Clive as we passed through the low tunnel. Despite the heavy thoughts bearing down on me, my ears perked up, curious.

"Doing what he does best," Bernard said from behind. "Sticking his nose in all the wrong places."

"I'm still unsure of the original purpose of this passage."  Clive added as he reached the stairs. "Or who decided to use it to store all that rubbish back there."

The four of us crowded near the top of the steps, bound by a circle of light from the torch, as Bernard pressed the switch on the wall that Gemma had accidentally stumbled into earlier. As the wall section ground open, Clive switched off his torch and motioned for us to take a few steps down. Light flooded into the stairway, revealing an empty hallway.

"Wait until I round the corner, then you go next Gemma, and so on." Clive whispered, "I know a route that should keep us out of patroller territory."

We each nodded.

Clive cautiously stepped out of the passage, peered around, and then started down the hallway at a brisk pace. Once he had disappeared around the far corner, Gemma scurried out. I went next, following Gemma at a distance of a few metres.

Apart from our widely spaced footsteps the hallways were still. The rain had either stopped or else had settled into a light shower too soft to pentrate through the walls. Through the darkened windows I could see only my own reflection staring back, a small ghostly form with wide eyes. I was shaking slightly, something I did whenever I was especially excited or nervous. My mind was brimming. Ghostly statues, passageways, fears springing to sudden life like grotesque tulips in the midst of winter. My grandad's colorful stories now seemed almost dull in comparison. For the past hour, the rest of the world had faded in the face of this gray fairytale, this ghastly enigma that was supposed to be truth.  I wanted to know more. I wanted to be part of it, to help peel back the layers and see what small, terrible thing lay at the center. To expose it. But the role Clive had in mind for me was not at all to my liking.

Finally, I arrived at the stairs that lead up to the girls' dormitories. Gemma had just reached the top, while Clive waited at the foot, hands shoved in his pockets. He motioned for me to wait as Gemma crept into the dorms with a final backwards glance. Bernard arrived soon after me and started down the hallway that lead to the boys' dorms. He threw his own glance over his shoulder as he went.

"Go on ahead, Bernard. I'll be along in a minute." Clive said.

Bernard shrugged, grumbled something under his breath, and went on his way. Once he was out of earshot, Clive turned to me.

"Sorry if he comes across a little standoffish. He really is a decent fellow once you get to know him. Incredibly smart. But he's had his fair share of trouble with the Patrol."

I yawned. Surely Clive hadn't stopped me just to chat about Bernard. I was weary of games. I wanted him to get straight to the point.

"I should be getting to bed."

"Wait," Clive held up his hands, "Before you go, tell me what you think of the idea. Of joining the Patrol."

"I don't know. I guess I'll have to think on it."

No. The answer was no. There was no question. But I didn't have the heart to tell Clive that right then and there. I'd wait for morning light to help soften the blow.

"Of course. Do make up your own mind about it. I don't mean to pressure you."

"I will. Although I don't know what chance I have." I started up the steps.

"Amelia."

I stopped and turned about half-way up. Now what?

"Please don't think I'm just using you." Clive's expression was grave, his tone flat. He looked small standing at the bottom of the steps.

I had to admire his insight. He knew I was upset and had correctly guessed the reason why. It was true. I did think he had used me. All of his kindness now seemed like a mere lure to get me to accept his proposition, to be his little mole. I could understand his desire to learn more about the statue, to find an insider who could push his investigation along. It was a brilliant idea, actually, even if I didn't feel I was right for the job. What I didn't like was his lack of transparency about it. Ever since my first night at Dreycott, I had thought of Clive as a friend. Our game in the library that day had made me feel that he wanted to be around me, genuinely enjoyed my company. Now that I knew he had ulterior motives I couldn't help but question the entire afternoon we'd spent together.

Then again, maybe I wasn't being quite fair. After all, I had entered the game with an agenda of my own. But I had been fairly up front about wanting my questions answered, hadn't I? My suggestion to alter the stakes of the game had made that clear. And I had sincerely enjoyed spending time with Clive. I realized that now. I may have started the game with a single-minded desire for answers, but by the end it was the boy behind the answers I wanted to know better. Was that why I was so hurt now? Because he hadn't felt the same way? Or was it because an unwanted suspicion was creeping in, one that made me think that Clive and I were similarily flawed in our proclivity to put our own goals above other people? Somehow, admitting that to myself just made me feel angrier.

"You knew I'd be in the library today. You knew I'd ask you for that game you owed me." My clumsy fall had given Clive a convenient chance to interact, but even if I'd remained in my chair he would have found an opening to talk with me. I was sure of it.

"It's true. You see, I'd been observing you and---"

"You've been observing me."

"From afar. I've been looking for someone to join the Patrol since last term. But listen. Even if you don't make the Patrol, I'd still like your help."

I paused, uncertain.

"Why?"

"Honestly? Bernard and I are at a dead end. We're in dire need of fresh perspective and I think you've got exactly that."

I fiddled with the end of my braid, hoping my silence would end the conversation. I was no longer willing to take what Clive said at face value.

"I knew it the moment I saw you standing up to those patrollers," He continued.

I looked up at him.

"What are you talking about?"

"When you were out on the lawn your first night here. You stood up to Vivian."

I scoffed.

"You mean before I was knocked to the ground?"

"That doesn't matter. What matters is you cared enough to fight back. That's what everyone else at this school has failed to do. Don't you see? Rosen's distant, the Patrol has everyone under their stranglehold, and the teachers try and go along as if nothing were the matter. No one knows anything. No one questions anything. But everyone's frightened. There's a darkness here. I feel something terrible has been loosed upon this school."

"And you think you can stop it?"

"I have to try. _We_ have to try. We have to fight to expose the truth before anyone else gets hurt. You saw how scared Bernard was. To think that someone might be behind this, terrorizing innocent pupils for some reason I can't even imagine, is just outrageous. Who knows if Rosen will do anything about it, if she _can_ do anything about it." Clive's hands balled into fists. "I'm not waiting around to find out. I'm going to keep searching and asking and scraping and digging until my knuckles are bloody and raw and I finally strike upon the answer to this puzzle. _Justice_ , Amelia. This is about bringing whoever's responsible for this nightmare to justice."

There was a strange determination, a flicker of fire, in his eyes. I was taken aback. His words sounded genuine. This was the real Clive. Not the sideways glances, the sly smile, the round-about puzzles and charming ambiguity. All were a part of him certainly, a part of the particular image he wished to project, but now, if only for a moment, he had dropped all of that, exposing an intensity that was startling and yet also strangely vulnerable. I had never heard a boy speak the way he did.

"I---" I couldn't find my voice, "I'll have to think about it."

I turned away and started up the stairs, feeling a wave of guilt and doubt wash over me. Clive may not have been entirely open with his intentions toward me, but I saw now that his goal was honorable. He truly did want to help the school. And I wanted to help him. It wasn't just curiosity anymore, although that did remain. Clive spoke as if it was our duty to uncover the truth and I was inclined to agree with him. Something my grandad had told me several years back flashed through my mind. In between his more jovial moods would come solemn reveries when he read, and sighed, and fretted about the state of the world. At these moments he shared with me insights that often sounded far too lofty to apply to my own small existence. Yet they had lingered with me nonetheless.

"Almost worse than those who carry out evil, Amelia, are those who are given the chance to do great good and yet utterly scorn it."

Would it be right to refuse to take part in Clive's plan, however far-fetched it was, if there was a chance that it could ultimately help to shed light on Dreycott's darkness? My initial response to the idea had been selfish. I could admit that. I was afraid, afraid of the Patrol and of stepping outside my bubble of solitude where I knew I could keep myself safe and in control. My doubts began to slide into acute disgust. No, it wasn't a bubble, that was too soft a word, but a prison I walled myself in, brick by brick, each day. One that kept me from ever doing or saying anything worthwhile.

I knew, then, what I had to do.  I couldn't wait, I couldn't allow myself to think on it, otherwise my mind would be set totally against the idea. Clive's words had kindled a fire within me, but I had to act before the embers cooled and I latched onto excuses. If I let this chance slip by now, allowed myself to be persuaded against it, I would regret it for the rest of my life. I turned around just as Clive was heading down the hallway.

"Wait."

He stopped, mid-stride and looked at me, head cocked, expression registering...was it surprise or just the opposite?

"I'll do it." I said. I squeezed my eyes shut. It was now or never. "I'm going to join the Patrol."


End file.
